Sardinia’s East Coast

"Life is more simple, but the easy things are more difficult.”

I can’t recall where Robin first read this about life afloat, but we laughed out loud because it rang so true. Take food shopping for example.

We’d run low on supplies before leaving Sicily, as the little bays of the Aeolian Islands were mostly uninhabited, so Sardinia seemed the perfect place to restock. No problem, we thought. Google showed two supermarkets just 2–3 kilometres away. We’ll go on the electric scooters -easy peasy.

Road to nowhere.

We set off to find that one shop no longer existed, and the other turned out to be a bakery. Not a single aubergine, avocado or apricot in sight. Google then helpfully informed us we’d missed the last bus to the nearest town six kilometres away.

The next morning we tracked down the bus stop and enjoyed a winding twenty-minute ride into the one horse town of Villaputzu. With two hours to wait for the return bus, we settled in for a leisurely coffee and a proper shop, loading ourselves up with as much as we could carry before trundling it all back to Pérdika. Life aboard has a way of turning food shopping into logistics.

wheeling our trusty granny trolley - such is a sailor's life.

Nine-tenths of the east coast of Sardinia is rugged and wild, with miles of exposed beaches and cliffs rising sheer from the sea — spectacular, but inhospitable to sailors. With a five-day storm forecast, we decided to push on to the more sheltered northern stretch, where anchorages and reefs promised better protection.

Wind forecast map for our anchorage.

We dropped anchor in the small bay of Costa Dorata within the Isola di Tavolara Marine Reserve, it had all the right credentials to sit out this gale - shelter from the north and west, a reef to blunt the swell, a sandy seabed offering solid holding for our anchor, and the cherry on top? - surroundings as wild and beautiful as we could wish for.

Anchoring in a Storm

Sailors like to say, “it’s the land that breaks the boat.”

When a storm is brewing, it is often safer to sit at anchor with the wind blowing offshore. Anchoring is part science, part art, and our security rests on both our equipment and technique. If our anchoring fails, we risk dragging or drifting, and the only option is to reset or relocate - hoping we haven’t drifted into another vessel, or worse, onto the shore.

I have become something of an anchoring enthusiast, intent on understanding how our set-up keeps us safe. The more I learn, the more absorbing it becomes  - and very reassuring when it works as it should. With a 40kg Rocna and a well-managed rode, we now sleep with far more confidence than we once did - even when the forecast promises a forty-plus knot blow.

Our nylon snubber in place before deployment: attached with a magnus hitch to soften snatch loads from gusts and waves, and spare the windlass from the strain.

We spent five days weather bound in this sheltered bay. It wasn’t the full weight of the gale, but enough to keep us aboard. It became a productive pause - Robin added further coats of varnish to Pouláki before the gusts rose, repaired the mizzen sail, and serviced the watermaker.

Yes that is Robin sitting in Pouláki!

Meanwhile, I turned to future passage planning, ARC rally paperwork, and safety checks, while also finding inventive ways to stretch our dwindling food supplies. 

It was a joy to be tucked into this bay. Pérdika swung through a steady sixty degrees as we watched the weather roll by - gusts coming and going. Each evening, we were treated to the soft sound of live music drifting across the water from a small hotel, while we ate supper and whiled away the evening in the cockpit.

Stormy weather's gathering in Costa Dorata bay.

We had planned to explore the nearby Maddalena Archipelago, but time was now against us. When the wind eased, we weighed anchor and set a course for Corsica, where my daughter was due to join us for a fortnight’s well-earned respite after her exams.

Creaming along through the Maddalena Archipelago.

Corsica’s West Coast

We thanked Italy, lowered the Italian flag, and hoisted France’s tricolore as we slipped through the Bonifacio Strait.

Hoisting the French flag midway through the strait.

We came to love Corsica, the fourth largest and most mountainous island in the Mediterranean. The west coast has a wild verdant beauty that suited us, and we were lucky with a settled week of weather to explore its remote and rugged coastline.

In contrast to the previous week we enjoyed:

– Time in Propriano, a lively port with French charm, a fine chandlery (always a plus), bustling bars and restaurants, and shops stocked with tempting French provisions. It was a treat to explore and relaxing here.

Robin and Amelia chewing the cud.

– Snorkelling in clear, quiet bays backed by mountains and alive with marine life. In one we were delighted to spot a stingray, in many others we had to play dodge with the Purple Stinger jellyfish, they can suddenly appear in swarms carried in by the wind and currents.

Amelia and Robin were stung - Amelia's looks remarkably like a jellyfish!

– And lastly, relaxing under sail with family, enjoying the rhythm of the boat sailing downwind, the pleasure of extra company aboard and the simple joy of meals lovingly prepared for us.

Amelia helpiing hoist the kite for a run downwind.

The French Riviera

We arrived in Menton near the Italian border after a calm 22-hour passage. We were joined by the lovely Tess, a friend of Amelia’s. The old town in its muted oranges and yellows, felt more Italian than French. Known as the "city of lemons'" its colours echo its long tradition of growing them.

– A short sail past Monaco brought us to Cap Ferrat, an exclusive peninsula famous for its lavish villas and fortified estates. To our surprise, the bay and harbour proved peaceful and welcoming, with little sign of the Riviera’s usual over tourism. We walked the coastal path, past mansions with uninterrupted views towards Monaco and out to sea.

Exploring the bay and port of Saint Jean Cap Ferrat.

Next stop, the Lérin Islands in the Bay of Cannes. We anchored beside the the Abbey on Île Saint-Honorat where Monks have lived and worked since 410 AD. Today, a small community continues the tradition of tending vines, olive groves and gardens, producing wine, olive oil, perfume and soap. It was a calm refuge from the August chaos that dominates this region.

Île Saint-Honorat - cloisters, vines and summer stillness.

Our final stop was Mandelieu-la-Napoule, another quiet harbour town near Cannes. We swam, walked the coastal path, sailed Pouláki in the bay, and had essential generator repairs carried out.

Then it was time to say goodbye to the girls and carefully prepare for our four-day passage to Valencia, across the Gulf of Lion - a stretch notorious for sudden, violent winds.

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