Hey ppl. Hope life is good. Anyone else feeling a bit tense? Today is THE day. Months of planning, campaigning and debating have all lead up to this moment. The question is, have we done enough? Was our strategy correct? Will we get sick of peanuts after three weeks at sea? Yes, the time has come for the Big Shop ahead of our Atlantic crossing. All my time spent meal planning, recipe-testing and obsessively list-writing is about to pay off.
But before we get into all of that: Mallorca. Have you been? Oh you must! I can recommend the town of Port Soller, with its sandy beach and buzzy promenade. There’s even a little tram, which - for the arguably extortionate price of €9 (eachway) (!!) - will whizz you 20 minutes to the sweet hilltop town of Soller - well worth visiting for its free exhibition of works by Picasso and Miro. Also, more importantly, there really are some very nice bakeries.
Our appetite for culture sated, we returned to the Turtle to find two VIP guests: Sian (Chazzle’s mum) (although he actually does just call her Sian) (but that’s a story for another time) and Fred (her mate) (also known as Lily) (also a story for another time). The pair run the campaign group A Plastic Planet - and technically weren’t there to see us at all. They were there to see Brad, the founder of Save the Med - a charity that aims to do exactly what it says on the tin - who had invited them for a weekend of diving and do-gooding.
Though not remotely do-goodery in any way (I personally hate doing good), Chazzle and I were invited to a big dinner at Save the Med supporter Tracy’s house - high in the hills above Port Soller. Here, we mingled with moralistic types like Nicolas, founder of plastic-free sportswear brand Mover and Mădălina, head of sustainability at North Sails, plus Pete and Kristine, who run a smallholding and prepared the meal using entirely homegrown produce, plus a lamb they had hand-slaughtered(!). Obviously I was outed as an interloper early on when Brad asked me what my passions were and I said watching Sex and the City and napping. Still, we had a very jolly time, until I mentioned that I’m terrified of being savaged by a shark in the Caribbean and he casually informed me that great whites are everywhere, including the Med (which I think was meant to reassure me but had quite the opposite effect).
Some days later, keeping a close lookout for fins, we ventured east to the town of Alcudia - where my sister Becky, brother-in-law Rob, nephew Fred and niece Poppy had booked an all-inclusive holiday especially to see us. Thrilled to be back together, we celebrated the only way we know how: by hitting the hotel’s impressive all-you-can-eat buffet. Chazzle, who has clearly been living at sea for too long, lost all sense of control - piling caviar, steak, lobster and bolognese sauce all on one plate, while I - pathetically - got overexcited at the salad bar then didn’t have room for my main (but obvs still managed several scoops of mint choc chip from the pudding station). Then - just when I thought our day couldn’t get any better - a Bon Jovi tribute act started rocking out by the pool(!!!!). Don’t tell me dreams don’t come true.
Naturally, the kids were keen for a ride on the Turtle, so we slung them aboard and set sail. Fred had a fabulous time - pretending to shoot down passing jet-skis and tearing chunks from a stale loaf of bread to feed the fish (Chazzle having a slightly less fabulous time, following him around with a dustpan and brush to sweep up all the crumbs) - but admittedly, Poppy didn’t seem that impressed - just sort of sat there dribbling.
Still, she was merrier than the majority of our mates, who hopped on the Turtle a few days later in nearby Port de Pollença. In fairness to them, they were all extremely hungover. We’d been out for a nice civilised dinner the evening prior, inadvertently ending up in the town’s premier (and only) nightclub. Though practically empty, it was actually pretty epic - because Nicky requested the song Babylon by David Gray and the DJ ACTUALLY played it - the moment only slightly tainted by the fact I’d just slapped Charlie around the face (it was meant to be a joke but admittedly was a bit harder than I’d intended). Anyway, as you can imagine, everybody was feeling a little bit fragile the following morning when we set sail - Chuck vomming off the side at precisely the moment Noodle reeled in a fish (probably not helped by the fact I insisted on doing a quick round of karaoke as we chugged along) (it wasn’t the first time someone reacted to my singing like that).
Undeterred, I was eager to hit up the mega clubs when we reached Ibiza a few days later. Sadly, we had little time for such larking about, as we’d outstayed our welcome in the EU and needed to make a beeline for the British Overseas Territory of Gibraltar (where we could check back into Blighty and thus avoid being blacklisted). So, after a quick beer with Charlie’s uncle Nick and his mate Dave (who have a v nice flat in the village of Cala Llenya) and an overnight stopover off the heavenly island of Formentera (opposite a restaurant where a friend of theirs wracked up an €8000 bill for five people) (needless to say we ate on board that evening) - we were off on a high-speed sail across southern Spain.
Cruising past Alicante, Almeria and Malaga, we observed the region’s famous “sea of plastic”, where most of the fresh produce in European supermarkets is grown - which was ironic as there was little in the way of fresh produce in any of the towns we visited. Still! There was plenty of fresh fish. One night at sunset, Chazzle spotted a cloud that I kid you not looked EXACTLY like a leaping salmon. I said: “IT’S A SIGN!” and at that precise moment, we hooked an enormous bluefin tuna. God bless the Costa del Sol.
Fridge brimming with fish, we arrived in Gibraltar and immediately set about plotting our escape. Unfortunately, several storms were tearing their way across the Atlantic, meaning that we were stranded for the best part of two weeks. This was bad news for Charlie’s pal Piers, who had flown over especially for the journey to the Canaries, instead having to settle for a quick day trip to Morocco (where we were promptly intercepted by border control and told to turn around) (Charlie did attempt to bribe them with a fish but they were having none of it). After that, there was nothing for it but to hike up Gibraltar’s iconic rock, where as soon as I reached the top, a resident monkey took one look at me and started furiously masturbating.
As you can imagine, one week in and I was actually beginning to go mad. As luck would have it, our bimini had broken - and there was only one woman up to the challenge of repairing it: my mum (her name is Cathy) (but I actually do just call her mum). So, I stuffed it into my under seat cabin bag and made a beeline for the airport, where I remained for six or so hours - before it was announced that my flight had been diverted to Malaga - eventually arriving in Somerset some 32 hours later. There, I thrust the bimini into Cathy’s waiting arms before giving my grandparents a quick squeeze and dangling my nephew upside down by his ankles - then promptly hopped on a plane again.
Back in Gib (oh, we call it Gib now btw) (that’s what happens when you stay in Gib for too long), we reinstated the bimini (Cath having completely outdone herself), then did an emergency dash to M&S and Morrisons for essential supplies (hobnobs and chocolate-covered peanuts). After that, we were off - cruising through the Gibraltar Straits without so much as a friendly nudge from an inquisitive orca (which tbh I was gutted about).
In fact, the whole five-day journey was a total breeze (not counting the time I almost capsized us with an accidental jibe) (in fairness I got freaked out by an approaching oil tanker) (which it turns out was a good seven miles away) - and before we knew it, we’d arrived in Graciosa. The tiny island sits above Lanzarote but feels like another WORLD, with its volcanic landscape, turquoise waters and sandy streets - there being no tarmac roads.
Lanzarote, admittedly, does have quite a lot of tarmac roads - and thank god - because when we arrived a couple of days later, Chazzle and I were itching to rent a car (preferably a Fiat Panda) and go exploring. We zoomed across the island, visiting its vineyards (where the grapes are grown in holes to prevent them being wind-blasted), as well as the Timanfaya National Park, an awe-inspiring volcanic landscape, peppered with coach loads of tourists on package holidays. But the real highlight had to be the cactus garden, where Chazzle allowed me to undertake a seductive full-length photoshoot, which I think we can all agree was well worth the €8 entry fee.
From here, it was a hop, skip and a jump (plus an extremely bumpy 15-hour sail) to Gran Canaria and its buzzy capital city of Las Palmas. We arrived last week — joining the hundred other boats who will be crossing the Atlantic at the same time as us, as part of the famous ARC rally. It was a pretty big moment, actually, reaching our final stop before the Caribbean - after what has been an EPIC five-month 3500 mile adventure, right through the Mediterranean (and we didn’t even see ONE single shark). But enough about all that - it’s high time I headed to the supermarket. It’s crunch time, people!
Wow this was amazing and then BAM the photo set of Charlie with cacti. Incredible stuff.