The seas of Cape St. Vincent were distinctly choppy when we passed through them in the early hours, fortunately all of our folks were still tucked up and very few even made the effort, or so it seemed, to view our arrival at the entrance to the Tagus around 0700 hours.

It was a cool, blustery sort of day, with the odd sharp shower and the temperature hardly rose above 17 degrees. Even so, the city was very busy as there was some sort of open air graduation ceremony taking place in Black Horse Square, where thousands of students, all dressed in smart black and white, with black capes to match, were gathering.

We chose to walk the other way, up towards the National Pantheon, a magnificent domed white building, originally known as Saint Engracia Church. I had heard there was a Saturday market in the nearby streets, the Feira da Ladra, which apparently translates to the market of stolen things. It was an extraordinary spectacle, literally hundreds of vendors trying to sell millions of items, mainly old and well past their use by date all laid out over the ground.

I have never seen such a variety of assorted tat, none of which I would ever want to buy, but perhaps it only goes to indicate the present state of the Portuguese economy where absolutely everything has a value, no matter how small, old, or seemingly useless. I was told later by our departure pilot that the market was the first place someone would go if they had something stolen. If you went very early in the morning there was a very good likelihood that you could find your possessions there, and then you could have them back, for a small price of course. 

We found our way through the Alfama district and down into the city, following the tram tracks and trying to avoid being run down by the famous number 28. They seemed to come in bunches, all packed to the gunnels with locals and tourists holding on for dear life and struggling for air.

We sailed on schedule, back into the brisk chilly wind blowing across the wide river. Two days at sea and then it’s all change. Norway next week and Captain Steve in charge.

The overnight voyage across the Gulf of Lyon was far more comfortable than on the way to Ajaccio and in light winds we followed another cruise vessel into the inner harbour of Barcelona, berthing just a few hundred yards from the main square below ‘La Rambla’. Great for the passengers, not quite so easy for the manoeuvre as the bow ended up around twenty meters or so ahead of the quay.

The anticipated early rain was something and nothing, and it had basically gone by mid-morning so a dry day was experienced by most. I did mention to passengers later that I had taken my umbrella for my two hour stroll and that was no doubt why the rain had stayed away.

I joined my wife at the top of the boulevard and we worked our way south, passing into the old quarter and twice taking a seat in order to watch the world go by. With seven passengers ships in port, the ‘world’ consisted of many thousands all dressed, not in the sophisticated Latin elegance of old Catalan café society, but in the rather scruffy bland uniformity of the cosmopolitan tourist.

From balconies above the odd local looked down disapprovingly as line after line of tour groups followed flag wielding guides, while others sat around the edge of a large old fountain watching a skate boarder crash and clatter around between unsuspecting visitors. A film crew set up their bright lights and then, just as quickly, disappeared.

Back in La Rambla the human statues looked as though they were about to break for lunch, the silver ‘horse’ of Don Quixote had collapsed into a small mound and he was counting his recently acquired change, while a golden winged lady winked and looked as though she was about to take flight when a few coins were dropped into her hat. We retreated back to normality and by sailing time the ‘proper’ rain started to fall. Good timing for the passengers, not so good for us on the bridge wing.

We passed the Frioul islands as we approached Marseilles, the smallest of which is the infamous Isle d’If, made famous in ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. The early morning sun on the light coloured stone of the ‘Chateau’ disguised that threatening facade.

We escaped early and joined the morning tour to Aix-en-Provence, the beautiful town some twenty miles north that was once the home of Paul Cezanne. While the others set off on the walking tour we chose to amble up the main boulevard where a number of stall holders were setting up. Above us the Plane trees were just coming into full leaf and the dappled sunshine was reflected off the weathered sandstone. Water trickled over mossy fountains set here and there while the pavement cafes were already busy with their patrons.

After a coffee we ventured further, taking a small alley, ‘Passage a Gard’, and found on the other side a thriving little market selling all manner of bric-a-brac. Many delightful objects for which one would have no use for whatsoever, although my eye was rather taken with the Samurai sword and the one legged Renaissance style wall table on offer, before ‘discussion’, for just 15 Euros. ‘Where would we put it?’ ……‘What’s that got to do with it?’ I thought.

Further on we passed through arches that beckoned and a labyrinth of narrow streets, where tall apartments hid much of the direct sunlight, coming across a bustling flower market in a small leafy square surrounded by a number of quaint shops. One of particular attraction was ‘La Cure Gourmande’, a biscuit and sweet shop that had obviously been there for many years and which, in hand painted letters on it fascia, stated that it was a ‘Maison de Qualite’. I was not allowed to find out.

After three delightful hours we returned to the busy Place de Rotund to board the coach, stopping on route to purchase a small silk item unlikely to be seen by many others and which was ‘clocked’  by my wife an hour or so before. Yet again I was advised that I have apparently saved money

The tail end of a ‘Mistral’ was experienced as we crossed over from Mahon towards Corsica, but the brisk north westerly wind and swell were of little consequence to our guests. By the time we sailed into the long bay of Ajaccio, the sea had calmed and the sky was blue.

From the sea it is such a pretty place and it was a delight to return after many years of being away, in fact the last time was six or seven years ago when there was just a touch of political unrest. The separatists had sent a rocket into the police station the night before and the Harbour Master refused to allow our passengers ashore. We anchored for a while until I was advised that the local fishermen were going to block our exit from the port if we stayed any longer.

The town is the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte and, needless to say, he is remembered as a hero. Apart from his home being a museum, there are plenty of other reminders dotted around so it was no surprise to come across some men in 19^th century costume who had obviously just come away from a minor historical pageant. Their relaxed gait and state of undress indicated that they were not exactly modern military men.

We took a stroll along the marvellous date palm lined promenade, then eventually came back to a pavement café and sampled a small bottle of the local beverage which was unenthusiastically served by a waiter who gesticulated we should move to the table not laid up with paper napkins and cutlery.

Considering the place was empty of other custom I thought he was being just a tad petulant. Across the narrow street a lady of mature years continued to look down at the comings and goings from a first floor window.

The lunchtime rush never did materialise, so there was little for her to observe and she had shut up the shutters by the time we left the still empty café to return on board. The afternoon was glorious and many of our folks took the opportunity to sit out and enjoy the sunshine until we departed. Our pilot, on board for less than five minutes, spent all that time explaining how busy they were. I must be missing something.

Little had changed in the twelve days since we had last anchored in Mahon, except perhaps the weather, it was noticeably cooler, and it was a Sunday. There was very little sign of life ashore as we proceeded up the narrow channel towards the anchorage, but by the time both bow and stern anchors had been placed our agent had appeared in the very yellow shore tender that had been hired to assist our operation. Quite unfairly it had been re-christened as the ‘Yellow Peril’ even before being made fast alongside our pontoon.

In fact it was most beneficial because it was registered to carry 150 passengers, consequently all our tour passengers were off before nine and there were no delays for our independents who were also keen to get ashore quite promptly, no doubt because we were due to leave again by 2.00 pm. When human traffic was light I commandeered an empty tender to take us over to the nearest quay close to the yacht harbour, and then took the steps up onto the higher ground. There was a splendid view back over the waters towards the 18^th century isolation hospital on the island just behind our anchorage, and further in the distance lay the now sadly forlorn military arsenal.

We walked around the headland towards Mahon itself, looking down over tiled roofs into the harbour, empty of large vessels, just more yachts and our own tenders lying at the base of the grand steps that lead up into the city. As we approached the cathedral there was a noticeable change to the Sunday quiet, and as we rounded the corner there were hundreds of cyclists all kitted out in Lycra and plastic helmets, standing around and chatting. No doubt a rally of sorts and there was every indication that it was about to commence. From a speaker above a nearby building a Pink Floyd number was adding to the mood of minor excitement. We waited near the start line, indicated by an inflatable arch, where dozens of children, all similarly kitted out and with their ‘kiddie’ bikes, were waiting to lead the foray.

A dozen or so police, including a couple suitably attired on cycles, stood poised and then a Spanish voice came over a megaphone and they were off. There seemed some degree of unwarranted haste as the elders attempted to get around the children. A chap on a Penny Farthing was soon away, but one child’s stabilisers didn’t prevent a tumble as he attempted a right hand turn on shiny cobbles. I could visualise tangled wreckage, up turned spinning wheels and plenty of tears. Time to make a discreet exit and leave the professionals to pick up the pieces.

After rather dull weather since departing from Coruna it was a delight to see the sun as we passed Cape St. Vincent and the sunset that evening was quite something, a wonderful display of high cumulus and mare’s tails all in a rosy glow against a deepening blue sky.

By breakfast we were well into the thick of traffic all funnelling down towards the Straits and, with a strong tide, we picked up time and crossed over the traffic separation scheme and into the Bay only to be greeted by Martin Breen, an ex-Master with Saga who has settled in Gibraltar as a pilot. We spent a little time ‘catching up’ at the same time as threading our way through the anchored ships.

I have not been on a tour in Gibraltar for over thirty years and so, with some time to spare, we joined the one that took in the unique history of the Rock during the Second World War. The driver of our minibus, Cliff, gave an amusing informative commentary as he drove, first across the airports runway, twice, then around the narrow streets passing solid walls with only inches to spare, then stopping so that we could take in the views from Europa Point, and high up into the nature reserve where we came across the odd Barbary Ape or two. He drove on around the northern edge and finally left us at the entrance to ‘Hays Level’, the entry point to the labyrinth of tunnels carved out over a three year period from 1940.

Our guide through this strange cool underground world was an ex-army Corporal who had some delightfully colourful language to explain how it had all worked deep inside the Rock where thousands of men, and just a few ladies, toiled away inside for six days a week before being allowed back out into the sunshine to refresh on Vitamin D. There are over thirty miles of tunnels that include storerooms, living quarters, a hospital, ammunition stores, galleys, etc. The 1% that we covered was at least illuminated, the remainder are still apparently used to train Special Forces and the like. This subterranean world was an experience, but there seemed to be an audible sigh of relief when we came around a corner and back out into the daylight at ‘Jock’s balcony’, a fine vantage point from which to observe the ‘foreigners’.    

We had probably the best vantage point for the Lancaster fly past in Southampton last Monday, it swooped over the Royal Pier, past us and then turned again to head down river towards the Isle of Wight. It was a shame that most of our new passengers were still checking in at the time.

We sailed off down through the Needles Channel in fine weather, with just a hint of coastal fog over towards the Dorset coast. By the following morning that had been replaced by a rather grey sky, but good vis, which was a blessing as the Doctor decided we needed to check out the French SAR service who were duly summoned to assist in taking one of our passengers off to specialist facilities in Brest. I later explained to Doctor Berch that my helicopter ‘spotters’ handbook is now getting rather full.

Biscay was kind to us, and only started to get a little ‘jolly’ by late evening, by which time most sensible folk were contemplating the horizontal. The following morning we lost the sea swell as we approached the port before most folk were up and about. Perfect timing.

The local agent told me that unfortunately summer had been and gone and we were probably experiencing their autumn, it was rather cool and grey.  The rain held off though, and while the folks went off touring or for a walk. The Safety Officer attempted to put out the raging inferno in the ‘fish and chip shop’ by the outside pool. Of course, it was only an exercise, but he was taxed a little further by myself when he suggested it was ‘under control’.

My wife and I stepped ashore for an hour or so, strolling the nearby narrow streets, which were still fairly busy before siesta time. The old town is full of tall apartments with the characteristic Spanish balconies, closed in by white painted wooden panelling and shuttered windows. The town hall, which has a large square to the front, was a remarkable building. We stopped for refreshment at a pavement café while watching the world pass by; a grandfather dutifully pushing a pram up and down, a young girl with pigtails racing around the square on her scooter, one or two older ladies, elegantly dressed, going somewhere probably not too far away. And not a tourist in sight, quite delightful.

We probably had the best sea day so far as we headed in a westerly direction towards the Straits, a light easterly wind and almost flat calm. The following morning, before twilight defined the Rock, its presence was only shown by the large number of brightly lit ships anchored just to the east. We passed Europa Point, even more ships lay anchored ahead, most of which were taking oil bunkers from smaller tankers that lay alongside.

The ex-pat pilot who boarded told me he’d been up all night and ‘would I like him to take the con’? I politely refused….he seemed somewhat relieved. ‘Quest for Adventure’ came in behind us and, after the tours had departed, there was a minor rush of visitors between the ship, crew who knew each other and passengers who wanted to ‘investigate’ what they had not as yet travelled on. Captain Mark came over for a cup of tea and we also caught up on the ‘gos’ as it is apparently called by the young folk. He was off with his charge to Seville, an interesting pilotage up a river which neither of us has travelled. I could offer little in the way of advice, but I assume he made it as there has been nothing in the international press. 

Gib was a little cool and a fresh easterly blew up during the morning. The folk all came back, as did some of the crew, many loaded up with bags from Morrison’s. Pilot Matt Kent came aboard to take us out, I first met him when he was about ten, his father being a Falmouth pilot who we used to meet from time to time. Where has all that time gone?