The Voyages of Perdika Sailing sustainably about the world

From Storm to Stillness: Sardinia, Corsica and the French Riviera

Thu, 28 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

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.

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.

Predict Wind shows our position (green dot) and the 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 anchor fails, we risk dragging or drifting, and the only options are 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.

For more photos and videos follow us on Instagram and Facebook - links below.

Passage to Sardinia

Tue, 19 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Passage to Sardinia

We opted to leave Sicily, partly due to the incessant swell, but also because a perfect weather window had come along for our sail to Sardinia. Sadly, that left no time to explore or provision in Cefalù, our last port, which looked to be a charming and picturesque place.

The forecast was for a strong-ish south easterly blowing through the gap between southern Sicily and Tunisia. I’m sure this gap helps accelerate the wind as it’s squashed between two land masses. Predict Wind our go-to forecaster, was showing wind of around 20kts which is ideal and being a south easterly, it was in the perfect direction to take us across and up to Sardinia.

Predict Wind’s sail routing and forecast for our journey.

With the wind blowing in that way it meant very little wind in the lee of Sicily, along the north coast. What little wind there was, was coming from the east which made perfect conditions for us to raise our “kite”. This is the biggest sail we carry and can only be hoisted if you want to sail downwind or 10-20 degrees either side of dead downwind. She’s a beast and in the early days slightly terrifying to launch.

Launching the kite.

It’s wrapped up in a “sock” which you hoist up to the top of the mast and to launch it you effectively roll up the sock and the kite is pulled out by the wind. It’s scary simply due to its enormous size and therefore tremendous power, even in light airs. It’s also very easy to get the lines wrong and launch it wrapped round something you didn’t intend causing all sorts of havoc but when it goes right, oh, it’s magic! That massive kite unfurls, the boat surges ahead, and suddenly, you’re grinning like a fool.

The sail is incredibly efficient. In 5 knots of wind, we’re able to do 6-6.5 knots over the ground, pretty much the speed we would do when motoring. I love the feeling of getting all this power and speed for nothing (the engine guzzles three litres of diesel an hour at 6.5 knots). Luck was with us as a steady 5 knot easterly held for our entire journey along the north coast of Sicily. This very gentle sail, at reasonable speed, in glorious sunshine, resulted in our most enjoyable sail of the trip so far.

The kite flying with the mizzen ballooner.

For those interested in how the fishing is going, this gentle glide down the North coast was an ideal time to get the line out and after an hour the reel screamed and the line tore off the spool. A catch at last? As I sprang into action, I could tell it wasn’t very big, too light as I was hauling it in, definitely not tuna weight, and no fight. Maybe just a little-un but still a catch, right?

The Med continues to mock me.

Sadly not, my catch revealed itself as a piece of plastic, retrieved from the ocean for the better of all. It only goes to show what I’ve been telling Rachael for years, though she won’t believe me! “There’re no fish in the Med”.

If you know your geography of Sicily, or take a look at this map, you’ll see what I mean by the wind blowing through the gap between southern Sicily and Tunisia. We knew this wind was due to pick up the following day to around 25knots and once we came to the edge of the north coast, we knew that wind would hit us around breakfast time and I’d calculated that we’d have the strongest part of it during that day, which makes it far more manageable than sailing with it at night.

First night’s sunset

So what’s it like to sail at night? Well, it’s certainly not as easy as during the day, but it definitely has its own magic. You can’t see, is the obvious difference - or rather you can “see” just in a different way . We have AIS in board which is an automatic system to display other boats on the chart plotter in the cockpit. It’s a fabulous system and you see boats on the screen many more miles away than you’d ever be able to see at that distance in the day. It relies however on the other boats having the system installed. Commercial boats are required to have it, but it’s optional with recreation and small fishing boats.

That means you need to be extra careful, particularly sailing near to the coast, where fishing boats are more active during the night. To see them it’s all about getting used to the dark and being aware of what you’re trying to see. All boats at night should be displaying their navigational lights. These are actually tiny little lights but designed to visible over many miles. The colour of those lights can also tell you which way the vessel is moving across your track or towards or away from you. You get used to training your eyes to comb the water, picking up a tiny spec of light that shouldn’t be there. With Pérdika rising and falling to the rhythm of the waves, you might see something one moment and not the next. You get used to looking hard and your senses come alive in the dead of the night.
Racheal and I do four-hour watches. That usually means I’m on watch 10-2pm in the morning and Rachael does her shift from 2-6am.

Out at sea the moon and stars become very visible, there is no light pollution from land and you see the night sky incredibly clearly , or at least in this part of Europe with very few clouds. You can see remarkably well in the silver light of the moon. Time passes quickly as you search for who else is out there and follow their passage against our own. Come daylight the wind was building quickly as was the sea. Strong winds are less of our problem with our type of ocean-going boat, but the wrong sea state can make things very uncomfortable. We’re still learning how to read forecast on wave heights, direction and frequency. Get the forecast wrong and you literally feel like you’re inside a washing machine, as you’re thrown around by the waves. On this occasion I think we had it about right albeit the wind was stronger and the waves bigger than I’d initially predicted. There was only one moment as a rogue wave drenched me in the cockpit that I wondered if things were building to something much worse. As it turned out we had a heck of a ride -strong wind in the right direction and a lively, but manageable sea.

The wind continued to blow into the second night at sea. We’d initially calculated to arrive in Porto Corallo, Sardinia at 7 am. but we were making such good speed we were now going to arrive earlier. The wind was also due to drop as we approached Sardinia’s coast. By 3am land was in sight and the wind had eased to a gentle breeze. Modern forecasting is pretty good these days and we’d timed our passage well. At 4 am. we were arriving at Porto Corallo Marina but the pilot book warned us of the potential of a large swell in the entrance which can make entering the marina a bit tricky. As it was still dark, we decided to anchor in the sandy bay outside the marina and wait for day light. A wise decision as it turned out, as a boat coming in the night after us struck the rocks and holed its hull . It was a beautiful 70ft Oyster (the sailors amongst you will know how gorgeous these boats are). The boat was saved by the quick action of the marina staff who got the yard’s crane driver out of bed to come and hoist the front of the boat clear of the water . The first we knew about it was waking up the next day to see a beautiful boat held half suspended in the crane. My heart went out to the skipper, it’s the sort of incident all skippers dread.

We planned to stay 3 nights in Porto Corallo and delighted in the lack of swell at last. It’s a very sleepy marina, in the middle of nowhere, no bars or shops nearby. We loved the peace and quiet and ended up staying a week, I think neither of us realised how much we needed to recharge having been unexpectedly unsettled with leaving the familiarity of Greece and having many nights of broken sleep.

Through the Strait - Currents, Swordfish and Sulphur

Fri, 25 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Messina Strait

Our stay in Taormina lasted longer than planned while we waited for the winds to settle, so we could pass safely through the Strait of Messina.

The Strait is a narrow channel between Sicily and the toe of Italy. Though the Mediterranean is largely tideless, the meeting of the Ionian and Tyrrhenian Sea here creates powerful currents and whirlpools. This is driven not by tides, but by the difference in salinity and temperature between the two seas, causing a regular and often brisk exchange of water between them. With shifting winds in the mix, timing our crossing was essential.

In addition to natural hazards, the Strait is also a busy shipping corridor. To manage this heavy traffic there’s a Traffic Separation Scheme (TSS) in place - a kind of marine motorway designed to reduce the risk of collision. As a sailing vessel, we must stick to the east side of the channel and avoid the central lanes when heading north.

Pérdika (blue dot), navigating the TSS through the Strait.

We entered mid morning with a following current and light wind - ideal conditions. Whilst motoring past the scenic Calabrian coastline, we were treated to a close-up view of the traditional wooden swordfishing boats, known as passerelle. These peculiar vessels are built for only the calmest conditions, which made our sighting all the more fortunate. The captain steers from atop his 30-foot mast, while the harpooner waits out on a long bow platform to strike. It’s a centuries-old practice that is still going strong today.

Notice the 45ft spar extending from the bow.

These unique vessels have evolved specifically for swordfishing in the Strait. Swordfish rest near the surface during the day, and from high above, the captain can spot their silvery outlines in the clear water. The long bowsprit allows a harpooner to creep forward in silence before striking - no nets, no engines at full throttle - just a quiet, time-honoured hunt that has been passed down through generations.

Exiting the Strait into the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Aeolian Islands

From the Strait, we enjoyed a beautiful sail to the Aeolian Islands - a volcanic archipelago of seven main islands named after Aeolus, the Greek god of the winds.

A fresh breeze and a sparkling sea.

In Homer’s Odyssey - essentially a poetic record of early Mediterranean seafaring - Aeolus gifted Odysseus a bag of winds to aid his journey, but when the crew suspecting treasure, foolishly opened it, they released a chaos of contrary winds that drove them off course.

True to Homer’s tale, the Aeolian winds were difficult to predict and offered little consistency - and as if that weren’t challenge enough, a persistent swell rolled through the anchorages day and night.

Not so Swell

There is nothing remotely “swell” about swell. It’s the sort of thing sailors go to great lengths to avoid, but in these parts, it proved a stubborn companion - present more often than not, regardless of local wind. The combination of open anchorages and steep volcanic slopes allowed long-period swell to wrap neatly into bays that appeared perfectly sheltered on the chart. Especially in calm conditions, a slow, measured roll would establish itself - often building with the evening breeze or the spring tide under a full moon.

Anchored in stillness, yet the slow roll deepened with the spring tide under a full moon.

At times, the motion evolved into a proper side-to-side seesaw. You adapt, of course - but cooking quickly became an exercise in core stability: one foot braced the galley, one hand gripped the counter, whilst the other chased wayward ingredients as they scattered along it. Still, thankfully on all but two occasions the motion settled into a gentle nocturnal lullaby.

Vulcano Island

We visited three of the islands, with Vulcano being our favourite. It was a small, otherworldly place with an active crater, black sand beaches that felt like silk underfoot and a lush, almost tropical landscape. It had an air of timeless serenity that made it hard to leave.

Our first nights were spent at anchor in the quiet bay of Spiaggia del Cannitello, near a small hotel tucked into a 30-acre organic farm.

The cacti kept watch while we wandered the farm!

We felt instantly at home the moment we set foot there. It had a nostalgic air about it - a feeling of a place frozen in time. We made friends with Pilar, from Argentina who worked there with her husband Martin- she kindly let us wander through the grounds and explained some of the history.

The lovely Pilar joined us for breakfast.

Climbing the Crater

We enjoyed a short, lively sail north to Vulcano’s main port, where the pungent tang of sulphur drifted across the bay - a reminder that the volcano was still at work. Early the next morning, we set off for a hike to the crater.

An early climb to the crater across the bay.

The three-hour round trip was not for the faint of heart - steep inclines and slippery black volcanic sand made the ascent quite a slog, but the view rewarded our effort.

A relentless incline to the summit of Gran Cratere.

The main crater, ringed with steaming sulphurous fumaroles, felt like another planet. The volcano itself was one of Italy’s four most active, and though it hadn’t erupted since the 1890s, it was constantly venting.

Our next stop was Cefalù, a picturesque town on Sicily’s northern coast, where we’d provision and prepare for our three-day passage to Sardinia.

-More photos and video from this passage are on Instagram and Facebook.

Goodbye Greece, Hello Sicily

Sun, 06 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

It was with heavy hearts that we bid farewell to Greece — a place that has become our second home. Honestly, where else in the world can you walk into a shop in a new town and be handed a present before you’ve even bought anything? Or find that the waiter from last night’s taverna has bought you both coffee the next morning?

The Greeks have been nothing but kind to us, helped in no small part by Rachael’s impressive grasp of the language. That’s no small feat — I’m reminded of the book that used to live in our downstairs loo: “Learn to Speak Greek in 20 Years.” Well, Rachael cracked the essentials in five. She’s opened doors, started conversations, and made friends everywhere we went.

Our final port in Greece, Pylos felt like a fitting place to set off from. It’s steeped in naval history, nestled in the vast natural harbour of Navarino Bay. In 1827, it was the site of the Battle of Navarino, a pivotal moment in the Greek War of Independence when a combined British, French, and Russian fleet soundly defeated the Ottoman and Egyptian navies. It was the last major European naval battle fought entirely with sailing ships.

Battle of Navarino, October 20, 1827.
Print from 1827 showing fleet positions in the bay. Courtesy of the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (RP-P-2018-611), via Britannica.com.

There’s a memorial to the British forces on a small island in the middle of the bay, which we sailed out to aboard Pouláki. It was a fitting way to say goodbye to a country and people that are dear to our hearts.

The inscription on this memorial - “To the British officers and men who fell at Navarino 20th October 1827 Greece is grateful”

And now, we’re truly on our way. Greece felt like a glorious holiday — but this leg, from Pylos to Taormina across the Ionian Sea, felt like the beginning of the real adventure. It was our first proper passage: three days and two nights to cover 310 nautical miles. The weather couldn’t have been kinder — sunshine, flat seas, and just enough wind (some of it even in the right direction). There’s something magical about the moment you cut the engine and the boat skips along under sail.

Hoisting the Italian flag mid passage

We had 15–20 knots on the nose most of the way, but the seas were calm, so it was surprisingly comfortable.

We settled into our watch pattern — four-hour shifts overnight, two during the day — and got into a nice rhythm.

Sunset at the end of our first day at sea

We also ate very well, thanks to Rachael’s pre-departure prep: nourishing salads, beef stew and Thai curry kept morale high. I almost added fresh tuna to the menu, but alas, two clearly massive ones got away. The first snapped the lure coupling, and the second — in a moment of slapstick comedy — the line broke and the rod straightened so violently it smacked me in the face. Fish 1, Robin 0.

We arrived in Taormina just as the sun was dipping behind the hills. Beautiful timing, but also exhausting— that low sun is intense, and finding shade from it or even seeing where you’re going is nearly impossible.

Our final approach to Taormina bay

We’d read mixed reviews about Taormina: some people love it, others warn of crowds, noise, and endless day-trippers. Sadly, we’re in the second camp. It’s a stunning place, no doubt, but felt a bit overwhelmed by tourism. That said, there was a gem — the public gardens built by Lady Florence Trevelyan in 1884. Any Geordies reading might be interested to know she was born in Newcastle, and her father was from Wallington Hall in Northumberland. If you know it, you’ll know it’s also famous for its gardens — clearly, green fingers run in the family. Interesting too that us Geordies get everywhere! Next stop the Aeolian Islands.

Last Days in Greece

Tue, 01 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Our final week in Greece was one to savour.

We set sail from Kalamata to Pylos in the Western Peloponnese, joined by our good friends Phil and Naomi.

Highlights of the week:

Crew put to work!
Our creative friends earned their passage sewing - we needed sun covers adapting to protect our stern line reels. Super job guys, thank you!

Drinks, Bays & Pouláki
We enjoyed nights in quiet anchorages, chilled evenings ashore and some breezy sails aboard Pouláki, our trusty tender.

Sapientza Lighthouse
Perched on the uninhabited island of Sapientza, just off the southern tip of the westernmost “finger” of the Peloponnese, this lonely lighthouse was commissioned by the British during Queen Victoria’s reign and built in 1880. Strategically positioned near key shipping routes linking the eastern Mediterranean with the Adriatic and beyond, it served Britain’s broader interest in safeguarding maritime trade across its empire. For British ships bound for India via the Suez Canal, or engaged in commercial routes between Gibraltar, Malta, and the Levant, the safe passage around Cape Akritas was crucial. It stands as a symbol of maritime cooperation between Britain and Greece in the age of the Empire.

A weathered stone path, once trodden by lighthouse keepers, still leads up from our anchorage to the sadly dilapidated remains. Though no longer manned, the lighthouse is now solar-powered and continues to cast its light for passing sailors.

Methoni Fortress
We anchored beneath the imposing bastions of Methoni’s Venetian fortress — one of the best-preserved examples in Greece.

Built by the Venetians in the 13th century, it guarded a key Venetian maritme trade route between Europe and the East as well as serving as a military stronghold and naval base. We wandered through vast stone courtyards, battlements, and the distinctive octagonal Bourtzi tower, once used as a prison. Its scale is impressive even today.

Nestor’s Cave
Our final stop was a long-awaited visit of mine to Nestor’s Cave. A hot walk led us past a protected wetland lagoon, through coastal sand dunes to a tucked-away cove where the cave overlooks the Ionian.

in Homer’s Odyssey, this is where the wise and gracious King Nestor of Pylos is said to have stabled his cattle — not his final resting place, as is often assumed. It’s a quiet wind swept spot with a deep sense of history.

With our Greek adventures winding down, we said our goodbyes and turned our attention to provisioning Pérdika for the next leg - a three day sail across the Ionian to Sicily.

Our Sailing Odyssey Begins - Westward Ho!

Thu, 19 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

After several years of planning and preparation, our six-year voyage aboard Pérdika is finally underway.

Leaving our home port, Lakki Marina, Leros

We’ve now sailed just over 400 nautical miles and are gradually settling into life at sea — adapting to its pace, its unpredictability, and our ever changing landscape. So far we're happy to report, Pérdika is proving herself both capable and comfortable.

The five weeks spent in the boatyard before launching was intense but productive. Long days of labour paid off with essential upgrades and the completion of our new dinghy, Poulàki. With Pérdika back in the water and ready to go, we began our journey through the Aegean and into the heart of the Peloponnese.

Since casting off, we’ve welcomed three sets of friends aboard and taken a short detour to Mallorca for the wedding of close friends. It’s been a dynamic start — marked by shifting weather, changing scenery, and the steady rhythm of life under sail.

Our first leg included:

– A lively, wind-filled week sailing with Clare through the Dodecanese and Cyclades. Well done Clare, those were some bumpy passages we took you on!

– Two calm and restorative weeks with Anna and Simon exploring the Eastern Peloponnese.

Litter picking, Valanidia beach

– A beautifully hosted wedding in Mallorca, offering a brief and glamorous contrast to our briny life afloat.

Finca Son Mir, Palma, Mallorca

Lastly, a few stunning days with Ella and Elliot, tracing the rugged coastline of the Mani Peninsula, enjoying dolphins surfing our bow wave and swimming with loggerhead turtles in Limeni bay.

As we sailed past the imposing Taygetos mountains of the Mani Peninsula, I was rereading 'Mani' by Patrick Leigh Fermor. His vivid stories of the fiercely independent Maniots—their feuds, traditions, and fierce pride—brought the dramatic coastline to life. Two years ago, we toured this area by car, tracing Fermor’s footsteps on land, and fell in love with the Mani—the landscape, its bays, and its people. Reading his words now, from the sea, made the experience even more vivid.

Spot Pouláki in amongst her Greek friends

We are preparing for our final week in Greece, sailing west from Kalamata to Pylos with our friends Phil and Naomi aboard. From there, we’ll provision and plan our first significant crossing — a 2–3 day passage across the Ionian Sea to Taormina, Sicily.

P.S. If you’ve subscribed to our monthly Newsletter and haven’t seen it, check your junk email folder and mark ‘Rachael and Robin - Sailing Perdika’ as ‘Not Junk’ and add newsletter-sites@skipperblogs.com to your contacts so you don’t miss the next update!

Dinghy Diaries IV – Launching Pouláki

Wed, 28 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

With launch day for Pérdika rapidly approaching, and very little time left, I was reminded of the quote on the wall at Fyne Boat Kits in Kendal where all this began “Don’t let excellence get in the way of good." So, a few shortcuts later, which no one will notice and if they do, I can counter challenge them with another remark I learnt at Fyne “So, how many boats have you built?”

Pérdika finally splashed into the water on 5th May with Pouláki proudly sitting on her bow. The first hoist to get her up there was a nervous moment. Would the lifting eyes hold? Was my epoxy work strong enough? Would she balance in the lifting harness okay? Fortunately it all went very well. Pouláki was finished with a promise to do a few more improvements later, much later, as we needed to get our lives back and concentrate on the main voyage.

So we sailed down to Lakki harbour, spent a week ignoring her - almost (we still had to epoxy and varnish the rudder, mast, boom and thwarts). Finally at the end of the week, on 12th May with the help of our Aussi friend Bob, we gently lowered Pouláki into the water.

This day had to be the day, there simply wasn’t any time left if we were to sail Pouláki for the first time in Lakki before leaving. A promise of a PFL afterwards was encouraging even though the weather, with strong gusts, wasn’t ideal for the first sail. “She floats” was my first thought, followed by “where’s that water coming from?” One of the screw holes to hold the nesting halves together didn’t have a screw. Rapidly jumping into her, putting the screw in sorted all that. Rachael leaped on board and we set off, closely shadowed by Bob in his rib, as rescue boat and chief photographer.

From the moment we set off Pouláki felt right. She sat in the water with perfect poise, she wasn’t tippy like I thought she’d be, and she responded proudly as the sail filled. She is a proper sailing dinghy, as had been promised by her designers and she soon skipped across the bay. She tacks well, heads up well and feels like there’s plenty of power. It’s an immensely satisfying feeling to build your own boat and despite the weeks and weeks of work, it was all worth it to feel the boat respond so well. We are going to have lots of fun and plenty of adventures with this little boat.

Dinghy Diaries III - Completing Pouláki

Thu, 15 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

On completing Pouláki I mentioned to Kurt, my boat building teacher, that I hadn’t realised how much sanding was required. “Aye” he quipped, “If you don’t like sanding, don’t build a boat." I wish he’d said that at the beginning!

When Pouláki safely arrived in Greece, I honestly thought she was nearly finished. The hulls were made, everything had had two coats of epoxy. Not much more to do, I thought. Probably get it all done in a week, 10 days at most, then I can get on with the main jobs on Pérdika. How wrong I was, the month we’d set aside to get Pérdika ready for her global trip was completely eaten up by finishing Pouláki. It became an obsession. She’s called Pouláki partly because it’s the diminutive form of Pérdika. Pérdika means Partridge or a Greek game bird and Pouláki means “little bird”. But she’s also called Pouláki because coincidentally Lakki is our base in Greece, it feels like our second home and I just had to launch Pouláki in Lakki and sail her on her maiden voyage, across Lakki bay come what may!

So what took so long? Well to make the boat look good and more importantly survive the salt water and very high UV environment she will be subjected to, the hull required two coats of epoxy, two coats of primer, five coats of top coat paint and eight coats of varnish on the bare wood parts. Each coat requires 24 hours to cure, then sanding and wiping down with acetone to be ready for the next coat. Jeez, that was a labour of love. I’m not keen on painting and dislike it marginally more than sanding, so I sanded and Rachael painted. Sounds easy but each coat of paint or varnish seems to produce its own set of drips which never quite appear until they set hard, then they need careful sanding to remove just the drip and not the layer below. It didn’t help that we were doing all this work outside in a dusty boatyard beside the shower block. That meant a stream of passers by full of encouraging and appreciative remarks, but each demanding a long chat.

We have Wheels!

Sun, 27 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

You will often hear us say ‘everything’s a compromise on a boat’ and it’s true. Our electric scooters just arrived and given that space is premium aboard, they will be much simpler to store than our preferred option of folding bikes.

These Segway e-scooters are compact, practical and a lot of fun! They will be our land transport, allowing us to explore further inland and making it easier to provision the boat when shops are further afield. With a 35-mile range and a top speed of 15mph, they offer just enough freedom without the bulk. They’re surprisingly well equipped with front disc breaks, rear electric brakes, front and rear LED lights, indicators, tubeless pneumatic tyres, front suspension and traction control. Not bad eh for kiddie transport!

Dinghy Diaries II: We’ve all Arrived in Greece

Fri, 18 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

On April 6th we landed in Greece to move aboard our floating home. Just four days later, the unfinished dinghy Robin built back in the Lake District finally caught up with us - delivered by land, sea, and sheer determination!

The greatest challenge was getting the boat from Patras on the far West mainland of Greece to the small island of Leros in the Dodecanese. The solution came in true Greek style from our local car hire friend. Having shared the problem of getting a sizable crate, weighing over 100kg to the island, he proudly announced a few days later "Your boat is on the island!" We knew better than to ask how, but there were three conditions before it could be delivered to the boat yard: first, a bottle of wine for his trouble, second a €10 tip for the driver who would bring the dinghy to us and third to let him keep the large wooden crate. That was all! We just love the Greeks for their warmth, ingenuity and unfailing generosity.

The dinghy still needs several coats of epoxy, followed by priming and painting. Each layer needs sanding and time to dry - eight coats in all, so it’s not a quick job.

With just three weeks to go now, we’re knee-deep in boat projects - finishing the dinghy and chipping away at the growing to-do list aboard Pérdika: generator and watermaker servicing, upgrading our comms and navigation gear, safety gear checks, reorganizing storage, polishing the hull, and stocking up on spares and provisions just to name a few. Time’s ticking on now and launch day’s nearly here.