“Most people go away for a vacation, I go home”

This title quote by travel writer Paul Theroux had always seemed foreign to me, but having been on the boat for 16 months this sentiment is now taking on greater meaning.

Whilst it might conceivably have been felt at Christmas when I returned to the UK, in reality nearly everyone goes to some version of ‘home’ at this time of year (even if it’s to the in-laws) so this didn’t feel unusual.

It was only when I recently visited home from Rio de Janiero that I felt a connection to the statement. Not simply because I was going home, but due to the deeper emotional undertow involved.

Living on a relatively small boat with three other people is intense. I’ve sailed with my own family enough to know that even with people you know intimately the close-quarters environment can become suffocating.

The Sea Wolf dynamic is interesting as the longest I’ve known any of the crew is a little under 2 years. But I already feel I know them better than people I’ve known most my life. I tend to think of it in terms of dog years, i.e. one year afloat is the equivalent to seven on land.

Work aboard Sea Wolf is rarely taxing or difficult. But whilst I get plenty of time ‘off’, there is still a physical attachment of elastic quality to the boat, and by extension the people on it. In 16 months I have been back to the UK twice. Both times this has felt overdue. For me it seems to be about the need to confirm the existence of the status quo back home, principally authenticating relationships with family and close friends.

But it did feel a little strange being in Rio, with all the possibilities this presented, yet yearning to return home. I had just grown tired of the boat and of my place amongst those I share it with. 

A Good Mugging

A mugging was a genuinely new experience for me, and in many ways it was an absorbing experience.

I had earlier that evening been discussing with two Belgian friends (who live and work in Sao Paulo) the perception of crime in Brazil versus its actual occurrence. Without doubt you hear some pretty bad stories; normally from the Brazilians themselves and stories I don’t doubt in the slightest. But on occasions I have been left wondering whether the dangerous Brazil people describe to me is the same country I’ve been moving around for the last two months. Ultimately until it happens to you the alarm feels rather abstract.

I wasn’t blinkered to the stories though, and had been taking what the FCO might describe as ‘sensible precautions’ – watch removed and carrying limited amounts of cash.

And so it was I came to be returning to the boat alone after an evening (and a fair chunk of the early morning) out with the Belgians. The taxi couldn’t drive me directly to the marina entrance because from early Sunday morning the authorities close the main road leading to it so that it can be used by cyclists in a traffic free environment (a policy I admire).

So I asked to be dropped at the nearest point on the other side of the rather broad dual carriageway. I then strode out for the footbridge which would deliver me to within a couple of hundred yards of the marina entrance.

As I stepped onto the unlit bridge I heard some whispered voices down to my left, and looking ahead I saw a young woman walking towards me which drew my attention as I wondered if the voices were in any way connected to her. As I passed the lady I could hear someone scampering quickly underneath me, and as the penny dropped that a trap was set, a stocky yet agile bloke emerged over the railings of the bridge about ten yards ahead of me, making a big show of a relatively small knife in his right hand.

As I raised my arms in a gesture that I hoped would be recognised internationally as “whoa, whoa, whoa” (think I probably actually uttered that as well for emphasis), his accomplice raced up behind me and pulled everything out of my trouser pockets before I even had chance to turn around. It was the single-most act of efficiency I have witnessed in Brazil.

There was then a slight stand-off as we all stared at each other and they tried to ease their way past me on the bridge to get back to their original starting position. No doubt because I’d had a fair bit to drink I don’t remember feeling scared, and in fact my impression was that they were more anxious than me. Rather stupidly I grabbed the guy who had my possessions by his PSG replica shirt and pleaded “mi telefono”, which resulted in me getting my shirt ripped in retaliation. But incredibly my foolhardy request was also answered, with my phone handed back as he jogged back across the bridge. I could scarcely believe it.

The only explanation I can think of is that they were delighted to get their hands on some ready cash, and as petty thieves / addicts they wouldn’t have known how to realise any value from the handset. 

So I made it to the other side of the bridge where I was approached by a friendly guy who had sensed what had happened and was coming towards me alternating shouts of abuse at my assailants with words of comfort to me. An unusual combination.   

At this point I did have a minor sense of the physical symptoms of shock, but the alcohol undoubtedly masked this considerably and I was able to get to sleep without difficulty.

The next day I reflected on being very lucky and it certainly underlined for someone who has been fortunate to experience very little crime that it is a very real threat.

Interestingly I didn’t have any of the violation feelings I remember experiencing many years ago when my car was broken into overnight in Spain, but that’s perhaps because on that occasion a number of personal items were stolen.

My belief in karma also received a significant upswing when the following day I got a free upgrade to Business Class for the long flight home. Nice one BA.  

PS: Whilst I was back in the UK for two weeks a group of Spanish Olympic sailors were held up at gunpoint on their way to the same marina (main sailing venue for the games). After this attack was widely reported the security in the area improved dramatically, with guards placed on the approach to the footbridges.   

And I thought we were a Nation of Tea Drinkers

As soon as you set foot in Uruguay you are struck by the amount of people clutching a decorative handle-less cup with a long metal straw (bombilla) and a thermos tucked under one arm. This is mate (pronounced mah-tey), and to call it the national drink seems a gross understatement.

The process of making and drinking mate has many similarities to the British tea ritual; a degree of acquired taste, various available blends, the bridging of class divides and forming the backdrop to many social situations. The striking difference is the extent to which Uruguayans take it outdoors, and there is a strong emphasis on sharing an individual brew (often amongst many).

The next time I see Luis Suarez getting off the Barca team bus before a big game I’m going to be looking carefully for evidence of mate paraphernalia stashed inside his tracksuit top.

PS: Incidentally Uruguay is a fantastic country. Shouldered between the significant tourist destinations of Brazil and Argentina it is much overlooked (though ironically the Uruguayan coastal town of Punta del Este is the place for affluent Brazilians and Argentines to holiday). The country has miles of wild beaches, an interior of beautiful rolling hills complete with gauchos on horseback, and a gem of a capital city.

Omnipresent Waitrose

My affection for Waitrose has grown over time. Initially it was a rare sighting as the company tried to gain a foothold in a competitive market, whilst also being a little over my student budget. Fast forward a decade or two and they opened a medium-sized store ten minutes walk from where I was living in Bristol, and significantly, on my way to work. I’d also managed to pay off the student loan.

Like UK politics, the big supermarket chains all seem to have coalesced around the middle ground in recent years. Traditionally more budget retailers such as Morrisons and Tesco have introduced premium ranges (‘Finest’ and ‘Best’), whilst those at the more expensive end have introduced low-priced lines (‘Essentials’ for Waitrose and something like ‘Everyday’ for Sainsbury’s). This meant that shopping at Waitrose was no longer necessarily a rare treat, but somewhere I could just about justify (at least to myself) a regular shop.

Then they introduced a loyalty card which further cemented the relationship. This enabled me to pick up a quality fresh coffee every day, absolutely free. The idea obviously being that if you go in-store to get a coffee, you’d come out with a load of stuff you didn’t know you needed until the sophisticated marketing machine did its job. Whilst I did occasionally get reeled-in this way, I liked to think I held a healthy lead in the matchplay stakes.

There were a couple of low moments, such as when Waitrose discontinued my favourite pizza, but it was a pretty stable relationship. So it was with a hint of sadness that I removed the Waitrose loyalty card from my wallet before heading off on the boat.

Imagine my surprise then, two days after arriving in St Lucia I was provisioning for the boat in a medium sized, very local supermarket, when amongst the aisles were tins of Waitrose ‘Essential’ products. This seemed rather bizarre but I passed it off as some strange anomaly – perhaps a container of Waitrose items fell off a ship in the Atlantic and washed ashore in Rodney Bay? 

But then it happened again in Chile and Uruguay (as well as the Falklands but that was somewhat more anticipated). But not only canned products this time. Whilst Waitrose’s canned seafood chowder is not to be sniffed at, Belgian chocolate cookies got me particularly excited.

We do live in an increasingly globalised world, but Waitrose products in these places? Now I’m half expecting my favourite discontinued pizza to show up in the Azores.         

     

Estrecho de Magallanes

I alluded to the quixotic history of the Magellan Strait in my last posting, and having anchored in Bahia Mansa off Paso del Hambre and spent some time ashore it is starting to really come alive.

This short stretch of coast contains several ruined pioneer settlements dating back to the 16^th century. Until the mid 19^th century this resulted in tragic consequences due to the inhospitable conditions and distance from any meaningful supply lines (Paso del Hambre translates as Port Famine) . The establishment of an independent Chile in 1818, followed by the introduction of steam driven ships, transformed the straits into an important trade route. It was only in 1849 that the settlement of Punta Arenas was founded, which today is the largest town in Patagonia.

My principle objective in going ashore was to visit the isolated grave of Captain Pringle Stokes, who was commander of HMS Beagle until he shot himself in the head due to the “effects of the anxieties and hardship incurred while surveying the western shores of Tierra del Fuego” (according to the inscription on the grave). This act of suicide precipitated the promotion of Robert Fitzroy to captain the Beagle and the subsequent appointment of Charles Darwin (all accurately disclosed in the historical novel This Thing of Darkness by Harry Thompson).

So with my head down into the breeze I struck out to find the cemetery. It felt good to be stretching the legs after several days of being cooped up aboard. Within this extremely desolate area there was a large, modern building on the ridge above the anchorage which had me wondering what this could possibly be. As I was pondering this I passed a four-wheel drive vehicle (all non-metalled roads in these parts) pulled over to the side of the road, and the guy behind the wheel beckoned me over.

“Where are you going?”

I was a bit taken back by the directness of the question, but the face seemed friendly enough. I explained I was headed for the cemetery of the English captain, making the link to the Beagle and Darwin to try and persuade him that I wasn’t completely bonkers. Just when I thought I’d totally lost him he piped up with the name “Harry Thompson”.

The conversation then transferred into English and Randy explained that the shiny building I had seen was in fact a new visitor centre that he had been project managing for the last 6 years. It was an even bigger stroke of luck when he pointed out I was actually on the wrong road to the cemetery and that he would give me a lift.

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting you?”

“Well sort of, but I need a break anyway”.

Apparently he had been monitoring an area where people often come to barbeque (it was Sunday afternoon) as he was concerned about fires starting in the vicinity of his precious development.

It turned out that the project was more or less unique in the whole of Chile, a privately funded “Strait of Magellan Park”, backed by a local businessman, along with banks and the various tiers of government. Randy said that such a scheme would have been beyond the resources of the Chilean National Park body.

By the time he dropped me off at the cemetery he invited me and the rest of the Sea Wolf crew up to the visitor centre on Tuesday.

“Till Tuesday then”.   

So come Tuesday the four of us arrived at the visitor centre which was deserted to the point where it was slightly embarrassing how many people were working there. Like someone showing you where to park in an empty car park.

Randy generously waived the entrance fee for us, and gave some interesting insights into the history of the project and what it was hoping to achieve. He saw the visitor centre as a means to open discussion on what this stretch of coast means to Chileans, and particularly those living more locally. His perception was that historically the narrative has been dominated by the European settlers, and it was only really in his generation that this view has been questioned, with more recognition given to the indigenous tribes that lived here for thousands of years before the white man began charting the Americas.

The visitor centre wasn’t completely finished, but I was disappointed in what I saw. Whilst no expert on the area I had read enough elsewhere to find the displays lacking in the depth I was looking for. But maybe that was the point, simply to spark an interest and open dialogue about a very unique place.  

Everyone's Heading the Other Way

The Magellan Straits is one of the most historic natural channels in the world. The 310 mile S-shaped link between the Pacific and Atlantic was discovered by the Portuguese in 1520. In the centuries that followed some of the most illustrious navigators have plied this stretch of water, including Bougainville, Drake, Fitzroy and Slocum. It does feel quite something to be down here in a small boat following in these footsteps, surrounded by the dramatic scenery and sense of isolation that remains largely unchanged.

Timing of our entry into the western approaches of the Strait was important as you are exposed to the full fetch of the Pacific and the prevailing north / north-west frontal winds. Once inside substantial protection is offered by the thousands of islands on our starboard side, so the waves which are the real danger any vessel become much less of an issue. That said, the orientation of the western side of the Magellan Strait means that the prevailing winds not only blow uninterrupted down its path, but the winds are in fact accelerated by the topography. In the bottlenecks the anemometer has shown readings of 60 knots before becoming so overwhelmed by the wind speed that it just starts blinking. Throw in some snow flurries and gets quite exciting.

But what a relief to be travelling west to east with the winds at our back. Nearly all of the other boats we have met are going the other way which seems rather masochistic. Many of them are forced to shelter for weeks at a time in the protected caletas (coves) off the Strait, until suitable weather windows allow them to continue. 

There is of course good reason why most of the boats we meet are going in the opposite direction; we are travelling at a similar speed as those heading the same way as us and so we rarely pass each other. Less explicable is the fact that the marine life also appears to be going in the opposite direction – humpback whales bobbing and blowing their way sedately past, while the seals pop out of the water like rubber torpedoes. Whether this is part of a well trodden migratory journey or just a short-term run for cover I have no idea.

Travelling by night is pretty suicidal in these waters so getting sufficient protection from the elements in a caleta for the night is of paramount importance. This usually involves feeling our way up a narrow channel in the lee of the land, dropping the hook and then reversing towards the shore before attaching two long lines to the sturdiest looking trees available. The next big test will be transferring from the Magellan Strait into the Beagle Channel, which requires crossing some very exposed bodies of water, including the Aptly names Desolation Bay at 55 degrees south.

Living on a Floating Canada

Sea Wolf is a Canadian flagged vessel on which I differ from everyone else because I’m not Canadian. Below decks there is very little that would give any clues as to the nationality of the boat. The keen observer might pick up on maple syrup stowed in the galley and a higher percentage of Canadian authors in the bookshelves. Without more physical clues one is forced to seek out Canadianishness amongst Sea Wolf’s crew.

The first striking thing is that they are very proud of their country, and rightly so. A nation that began with British immigrants has continued to take in a wide range of displaced people with considerable success. I’ve heard it said that Canada is the salad bowl to America’s melting pot, in the sense that in Canada immigrants are encouraged to keep their identity, as opposed to the expected level of assimilation in the US.

And this brings us on to the prickly subject of their neighbour, and you strongly get the impression that Canada wishes it could be transplanted somewhere else on the world map due to issues of association. Whilst anxious to appear different to America, it appears there is much more that connects them than separates them. Or in the words of Jonathan Raban, “Canadian differential more as absence than presence”.

This is perhaps unsurprising given the crude way in which the bulk of the border divides the two countries. The rigid parallel of 49 degrees north makes no attempt to assimilate the natural geography of rivers and mountains, which typically tend to provide a division between communities and hence a contrasting psyche.

  

If the agitation of being linked with America wasn’t enough, there are also the historical and cultural ties to Britain and France. Whilst the Canadians on board like to poke fun at the British (rich pickings there), it is ultimately where they came from and the Queen’s head still appears on their bills. Again, resemblances appear closer than they care to admit.

The Canadian province of Quebec serves up another dichotomy. Those Canadians outside Quebec seem to view it with both disdain and respect, much in the same way that France and England observe each other. I’ve yet to meet a Canadian who doesn’t revere the city of Montreal for its sense of identity and place. 

And this appears to be the crux of it. Canadians are to some extent envious of the strong identities of the triple influences of America, Britain and Quebec. 

Galapagos Expectations

Land was a welcome sight after 11 days at sea, beating into the wind for the majority of the passage from the Panamanian Las Perlas Islands, turning the 700 mile rhumb line into a distance covered of over 1,000 miles. We passed some small uninhabited islands, little more than stacks, before arriving at the alarmingly named Wreck Bay on San Cristobal Island, the second most populated in the archipelago. And so began the unravelling of most of the preconceived ideas I had about the Galapagos.

I suspect my exposure to information (or lack of) surrounding the islands prior to arrival is fairly typical, hearing about them as a young lad from some elderly relative who hadn’t actually been there, but described as a magical far away land of unique flora and fauna shrouded in mystery. The next dollop of information came via biology class aged around 11. This was when the names Darwin and Beagle were thrown in, as well as the terms ‘survival of the fittest’ and ‘origin of the species’. Still no one I knew had been there, which was a major factor in ramping up the mysticism in my mind.

Generally when you arrive somewhere by boat it is a passport for greater access, and thus understanding of a place. You can reach locations that planes and cars can’t, and in my experience the local people tend to be more hospitable to those having arrived by sea, perhaps as a result of an appreciation for the more historic method of travel and the greater effort involved in getting there (unless you arrive in a superyacht with a helicopter on the aft deck, as recently witnessed on the small island of Hiva Oa, in which case most locals tend to scoff ‘wanker’, or some such colloquialism).

I recently read a book by the legendary French yachtsman Bernard Moitessier, who arrived in the near deserted Galapagos in the late 1960s, going from island to island as he pleased, harpooning turtles as he went. All I can say is those days are long gone. The islands have become increasingly protected, as they should be, but the bureaucracy surrounding the tourist industry has become bloated.

Shortly after arrival our boat ‘inspection’ was scheduled. This involved being boarded by no fewer than 8 people, though it was impossible to guess exactly what each of their roles were. A few questions were asked, a few forms were filled in, smiles and handshakes and then they all left as quickly as they had arrived. What a farcical arrangement. Our permit, which was the most extensive available to visiting yachts, allowed us to visit only three islands, and on those three islands we were only allowed to anchor in the principal harbour/bay. So, unusually our movements were far more restricted than the commercial tour boats plying the coast.

That said the few day tours I signed up for were spectacular. A dive boat out to Kicker Rock, a magnificent isolated island, was the highlight. Above the water line there were hundreds of breeding sea birds, including the poster bird of the Galapagos, the blue footed booby. Below the water line was a stunning cliff wall descending into the abyss below. All sorts of sea life had taken up residence in the pock-marked lava, including pencil spined sea urchins and chocolate chip star fish. Prehistoric looking green turtles went dreamily by, sea lions were darting back and forth and in between was a huge variety of tropical fish. Continuing deeper I saw black-tipped sharks which were of a modest 1.5 metres in length, but the highlight was seeing the much bigger hammerhead sharks (5 metres) patrolling the shadowy depths.   

The other thing that surprised me was just how large the two main towns we visited were. There has been a significant population increase in the more populated islands in recent years, predominantly from the Ecuadorian mainland. Very few people you speak to were actually born in the Galapagos, and this unsurprisingly appears to have led to a slightly incoherent sense of community and common culture. The streets were shabby and seemed unloved. What the community does have in common though, along with the Ecuadorian Government, is the desire to earn the tourist dollar (it cost US$3 to send a postcard to the UK).   

There is no doubt there is some spectacularly unique wildlife – notably penguins on the equator and the prehistoric looking marine iguana. The landscape is extremely volcanic and largely arid. The history of the islands is littered with attempts of naïve early European settlers trying to tame the harsh environment, with the result generally being them returning to their homeland within a few years or dying wretchedly. There was good reason for the islands being used as a penal colony.

In reality I only saw a small fraction of the islands as so much is off limits without the relevant permit/tour operator. I suspect with a decent 10 day tour package on the right boat the experience would be more rewarding in many ways. But one can’t help feeling that were it not for Darwin (who only spent a matter of weeks among the archipelago) the Galapagos would not be the tourist sensation that they have evolved into today. 

Classic Galapagos vista: lava, clear water and birds in flight

Lava tunnels on Isabella, make for great snorkeling

The iconic blue footy booby

The Alejandro Lopez

In the course of being on a boat for a long time you come into contact with all sorts of people. In the case of Sea Wolf you come into contact with a lot of mechanics given the ‘defects’ we have been dealing with.

When we arrived at Shelter Bay Marina, close to the Panama Canal on the Caribbean side, we had a number of significant issues to address. The anchor windlass base-plate had completely corroded in the San Blas Islands, the consequence of it being 17 years old and in a location which is permanently being attacked by salt residue. Solution – remove the corroded plate and motor, find out the model number, order a new part and fit. All fairly straightforward bar the over promising and under delivering Fedex. Similarly a new relay was ordered for the bowthruster.

Then came the fridge/freezer system. I really will try and save you the tedious mechanics, but some description of this is necessary to understand the issue, and by extension the man for the job, Alejandro Lopez.

He came into my life on Sunday 31^st May. It was good of him to come on a Sunday, especially as he lives in Panama City, at least 90 minutes away by car. A short man in his mid-thirties, slightly rotund, well groomed black hair and the arrogant swagger of someone confident of fixing your mechanical problems. He drove a Volvo and wore Ray Ban’s, somewhat exotic in Panama which gave further lustre to his capability. Just the person I needed I thought.

I explained the problem, that the engine driven (DC) fridge/freezer wasn’t working, but that the independent AC system was (powered by either shore power or the generator). He wasted no time in squeezing into the engine bay and confirming what we already knew, that there was no power coming from the magnetic clutch. Alejandro quickly suggested he remove the clutch, try to get a new one in Panama City, though failing that re-wire the existing one and reassemble. Just the sort of can-do attitude I was looking for.

He talked a lot, and as I’d been on my own on the boat for a couple of weeks I enjoyed asking the kind of open questions, whilst handing him spanners, that gave him the room to express himself. And express himself he did.  

Half Costa Rican half Panamanian, he had strong views on the full hand-over of the Canal in 2000 by the US, believing it to be a big mistake to lose the presence of so many Americans in the country on the basis of what they brought to the national economy, as well as the legitimacy they leant to the Panamanian Government. This has been the major political issue since Panama achieved nation status (with US backing, sound familiar?) in 1903. We also covered topics as diverse as the Kuna Indians (“I’m not racist but I can’t stand those people”) and prostitution in Panama City. He was formerly an aircraft mechanic before setting up on his own repairing boats, though apparently he could have been a doctor.       

He returned on Wednesday with the rewired clutch, though when this was installed and we turned on the engine this is when the fun really started. It transpired that while the clutch was now engaging the compressor, the compressor itself was knackered. And so it continued along the whole fridge/freezer system chain until we had replaced more or less all component parts. Furthermore, as we got deeper into it, the AC system (which till now had been working fine) stopped working due to shared electrical connections with the DC system. So two weeks into the work we were a small fortune down on parts and actually in a worse position than before the work began. 

Despite these set-backs Alejandro’s confidence in his ability to complete the work remained a persuasive force. That was until the final freon gas loading phase, when Alejandro’s body language shifted from prancing peacock to that of a person under pressure and at the limit of his own understanding of the matter in question. The freon loading, a dark art of injecting gas into the system under the right pressure and temperature conditions, was not going as expected and he didn’t know why. After struggling on aimlessly for a little too long he finally admitted he needed help and spoke to the manufacturer, who was more than helpful in discussing the issue with him and even agreed to send two technicians who were in the area over to the boat to have a look.

Armed with some larger orifices through which the freon could pass and a dose of reassurance from experts, the system miraculously became fully loaded and the swagger returned. 

This wasn’t quite the end though. Having passed through the Panama Canal and halfway to the Las Perlas Islands the engine driven fridge/freezer ominously stopped working. So with a sinking feeling we headed back to Panama City where Alejandro met us at anchor, late on a Sunday evening. You certainly couldn’t fault his commitment (or was it that the bank transfer for the work hadn’t yet taken place?). The issue was a faulty brand new compressor which Alejandro returned and replaced first thing Monday morning.

From beginning to end it tool a month to compete the work, during which time I met his father (dead ringer for the Spanish golfer Miguel Angel Jimenez) and brother in a professional capacity on the boat, and his wife and daughter in a more social setting. We shared scores of What's App messages and I came to love his use of emojis - bombs and guns among his favourite.

All smiles after a job well done, Bridge of the Americas, Panama City

What Does Paradise Really Mean?

This is a question I have been increasingly asking myself as the journey has progressed and the range of interesting places visited starts to increase.

The question really hit home in the San Blas Archipelago, consisting of approximately 400 islands (one for every day of the year) scattered over a huge area along the north east Caribbean coast of Panama. They are picture perfect remote atolls with an abundance of coconut trees and white sand, set amongst a maze of reefs. If you were looking for the ultimate deserted island picture postcard this would be it.

Added to the spectacular scenery is a very interesting cultural history. The islands are inhabited by the indigenous Kuna, who arrived here from Colombia in the mid-nineteenth century having been driven out by the Spanish. The Kuna way of life remains largely unchanged to this day (though we did charge a number of islanders’ mobile phones on the boat!). The men paddle amongst the islands in hollowed out canoes, fishing and harvesting fruit (apparently some 3 million coconuts are picked annually) which is then bartered with trading boats that come from the mainland and Colombia. Meanwhile the women make the world-renown molas, colourfully embroidered textiles usually depicting wildlife or abstract images. These from part of their traditional dress and are sold to tourists as souvenirs. Interestingly Kuna society is traditionally matrilineal and matrilocal.

Mola from Cayos Holandeses, San Blas Islands

As an interesting sideline the Kuna also get the odd windfall when boats become wrecked on the outlying reefs which still happens with alarming regularity. The sands in this area shift with such regularity that modern GPS navigation systems are at best unreliable. As a result the Kuna scramble to salvage cargo and then strip any unfortunate boat of fixtures and fittings. We saw at least half a dozen yachts lying prostate on a reef, stripped to the bare bones.     

So the islands are both visually attractive and have an interesting human story. Yet having anchored amongst this ‘paradise’ for 5 days I felt ready to move on. We had visited three different islands, talked to the Kuna, bought molas and fish from them, provided them with things they were short of (cooking oil and spectacles), swum in the turquoise water and skin dived wrecks. It felt like to stay longer would have just seen these activities repeated with diminishing novelty.

In contrast our time in Colombia left me craving for more, something which points towards a greater feeling of ‘depth’ associated with the place. Depth of scenery (mountains, beaches, rainforest, dilapidated colonial architecture) and character (diverse and multi-cultural society).

Undoubtedly the question of what does paradise really mean asks more questions than it answers. To a large extent it exists in the eye of the beholder, but to my mind the ideal of the remote island paradise that has been sold to us by countless advertising executives is not the paradise for me. But then is paradise ever truly achievable?

Paradise?

Roaming the Rhinogs, Easter 2008

An early start saw the amigos hit the road from Bristol with an eagerness to leave the city life behind. Inspired by Roger Deakin’s book, Waterland, we were off to Wales to seek out true wilderness and try our hands at wild camping. Earlier attempts had been somewhat mixed. In Sardinia we managed to pitch in the vicinity of a frustrated dog/wolf who growled menacingly all night, as if he was about to rip the tent to shreds and then set about the occupants. The following night was more idyllic, with a roaring campfire in sheltered dunes on the beach, a crashing surf and more stars than you could shake a stick at.

By the time we crossed the Severn Bridge into Wales the Boy Simmonds had just about got his head round the fact that you don’t need to use the gear stick in an automatic. Before long we were in mid Wales, passing through the Black Mountains and following the river Wye in full flow (proposals were put forward for a ‘three men in a boat’ style trip in a warmer season). Jim then spotted some mistletoe high in the trees lining the road and explained its origins. Now can’t seem to stop spotting it.

A brief stop was made at a camping shop in Crickhowell which I remembered from the previous year when I bought a few last minute essentials for the Mid Wales 100. Some League of Gentlemanesque behaviour ensued from the two middle aged women working the shop before we left with what we came for. Back on the road steady progress was made through sweeping valleys until we reached Dolgellau in the south of the Snowdonia National Park. Having built up an appetite we walked straight into our only disappointment of the weekend, the Ship Inn. A promising menu gave way to a shockingly tasteless affair straight from the microwave.
After stocking up on supplies for the forthcoming 24 hours (Jim and Simmy decided that 8 cans of Joshua’s finest were essential rations) we headed to a rough walkers car park on the east side of the Rhinogs. The weather was extremely changeable due to the strong winds, with heavy rain one minute and promises of sun the next. Fortunately we were much better equipped for this venture than any previous jaunt, and it was in full waterproofs that we began the business end of the weekend.

After a gentle trudge of a couple of miles through dense pine woods we emerged at the foot of the Roman Steps (though not Roman, the series of stone steps were constructed in medieval times as a pack animal access over the hostile terrain from the hinterland onto the coastal plains) where the ascent began. It was here that we saw the last people we were to see until the following lunchtime. As we began the steep climb up the north face of Rhinog Fawr (great) the weather really came in and sleet lashed at our backs before softening to large flakes of snow. The peak above us was shrouded in cloud but as we picked a way to the summit, as much by instinct than map, the clouds cleared to reveal supreme views in all directions, including out to sea at Cardigan Bay. It was from this first ‘bagged’ peak that we plotted our direction of descent and potential pitch for the night.

With the light drawing in we descended into the Nantcol Valley and finally found a small island of grass in the boggy ground next to an old ruined cottage. Before long the tent was up, with guy ropes being employed, a first for Hotel Blacks. The spot was a good’un, with fantastic views of the setting sun on Rhinog Fach (small) and the route we would climb tomorrow. Inside the tent things quickly became homely as sleeping bags were rolled out and the stove was lit. First course was soon served up, tomato soup with lashings of basil, shortly followed by a heaped bowlful of steaming pasta. The verdict was that we should open an eatery in Wales given the dross served up at lunchtime and what we had been able to rustle up on a camping stove. That said, food always tastes better on the mountain. Bellies full, moral was further boosted by some idle chat over a few hands of knockout whist. There was no need to change into pyjamas, it was a case of wearing every thread available, including beanies.

During the night I was convinced I was the only one having a fitful night’s sleep, as every time I looked over the fun boys seemed to be dreaming peacefully. I was pleased to discover in the morning that they had had a similar experience. The stove again worked miracles, producing an improvised dish of porridge mixed with crunchy oat cereal. The wind was still fierce and taking the tent down proved a right handful.

We descended to the valley bottom where the fields were full of spring lambs, with Jim commenting that they were really quite ‘good looking’. Soon a gradual zig-zagging ascent began and we were amazed at how the dry stone walls on the opposing mountain face appeared in places to be almost vertical.

Almost felt sorry for the first peak as despite being higher than Rhinog Fach it did not even merit a cairn. With a dusting of snow underfoot we descended steeply before stopping for lunch in the saddle between the two peaks. From here we could see the forest where the car was parked.

A short, sharp climb brought us to the top of Rhinog Fach and more stunning panoramic views. A comfortable descent led us down to the forest and before long we were back at the car.
Feeling rather weary by this stage we drove to the nearby Centre for Alternative Technology (CAT) which I had been keen to visit for some time. It was founded in 1973 on the site of a disused slate quarry and was originally a community dedicated to eco-friendly principles and a test bed for new ideas and technologies. Energy levels were really crashing by the time we got the water balanced cliff railway up to the site proper. We made a quick tour, spending a good portion of the time available in the café.

Onward to the bunkhouse at Braich Goch which Jim had rather sensibly booked for the night, the thought of another night under canvas was not particularly appealing. After a luxurious shower we had a quick pint in the bar surrounded by some very simple/ugly local types, before strolling down to the Slaters Arms in the village (Corris). The pub was just what we were after, a friendly landlord, wholesome homemade food, Welsh ales, roaring fire and locals chirping away in their incomprehensible patter. A couple of whiskeys sealed the evening and we hit the sack relatively early.

After talk of what constitutes the perfect fry up the night before, we set about the task with gusto in the morning. Quality ingredients played their part with local sausages and bacon, flash-fried beans, on the vine tomatoes, mushrooms, eggs fried in puddles of oil (as per the opening scene in Withnail and I) and thick cut toast.

With such a gut-full it was an effort to gear up for the morning’s walk, particularly with an overenthusiastic Brummie trying to pass on his limited knowledge of the area. The circular walk was to take in Cadir Iris, and while the path was much more travelled than the previous day a blanket of snow had fallen overnight making conditions tricky higher up. We soon reached the lake at the foot of the mountain and from here we took the more adventurous route around the back of the water to attack the steep hill face. From here the footprints disappeared and the walk took on a more pioneering feel. Small exploratory steps were required to negotiate the incline as the snow had drifted to a couple of feet in places. Finally we scrambled over the lip onto the footpath proper.

From here we continued along the ridge line before descending back down to the car park with the uneasy feeling of the long road home hanging over us.