Blue Moon's trip around the UK

Eagle eyed linguists will have spotted the seamless transition from Welsh to Gaelic. Students of Gaelic and Geopolitics will be keen to point out that Droichead Atha (Drogheda) is not in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, which is what I am sailing round. Sailors of any kind, and indeed anyone who knows Ireland at all, will say “Drogheda? Are you mad? What do you want to go there for? And how do you pronouce it?”. So I will use this post to explain.

Roger joined at Holyhead (yes, I have paid now, thanks for asking) and if you are crossing the Irish Sea from Holyhead then Dun Laoghaire is you best port of call, being closest and full of rather swanky yacht clubs. At some point during the rather dreary motor across the Irish Sea from Holyhead Roger mentioned that he didn’t much like marinas. This was all to the good as I had seen too many, and instead of going into the large, probably lovely, well-run and shiny marina at Dun Laoghaire had booked a night on the pontoon at the Royal St George Yacht Club, largely because I have fond memories of drinking Guinness in it after racing Dragons in Dublin Bay with lots of welcoming Irishmen, and a Full Irish Welcome is what we’d come for.

Perhaps because we weren’t in a Dragon, or perhaps because they didn’t recognise our impeccable yachting credentials, although the boat boys (yes, this is posh Dun Laoghaire, they have three and they call them boat boys) and all the staff were incredibly welcoming the members were more intent on getting ashore so they could drink barrels of Guinness and watch the rugby. Sadly either Leinster or Munster lost (I simply can’t remember which is which) and they all went home in a bit of a funk, leaving us to enjoy their yacht club largely undisturbed but without the Craic we had fondly imagined. This was also absent in Dun Laoghaire’s most Irish of bars which was full of Americans loudly telling everyone how much they loved Ireland (when I say full I mean there were enough of them – four – to fill the bar with their voices). The George (as its members refer to it) also failed to deliver on the Full Irish Breakfast next morning, offering cappuccino and croissants instead, which in my view suggestss it should be stripped of its Royal title. I assume now it’s in a Republic there’s nothing to be done. So we slipped the lines before they spotted that we didn’t come from a Royal yacht club and headed north.

Having had the dullest of crossings under engine (the high point was seeing three ferries at once) we were keen to engage with nature, so our first port of call was Lambay Island, home to extraordinary numbers of seabirds and Ireland’s largest colony of wallabies. I doubt they have to keep checking the truth of that statement. This was most definitely not a marina and in the face of a feisty forecast not a place to spend the night, but it was an excellent place for a lazy lunch and entertainment was provided by some Belgians who seemed intent on anchoring on the cliffs rather than next to them.

Having determined that going back South to the comfy marina at Malahide was not on brief (also annoyingly not really an option since I had got my tides wrong again) we opted for the authentic but totally empty ‘harbour’ called Loughshinney. Not really a welcoming place since it is a tiny fishing hamlet overrun by Ireland’s finest examples of what happens when you don’t have planning inspectors.

So it was with no real expectation that the next day we headed to Drogheda, the obvious next stopping point unless we wanted to do another 50-miler, which we didn’t. The only drawback being that it was quite clearly a commercial port, five miles up a muddy river that you could only enter with the tide, and that its only distinguishing feature is a rather unremarkable railway viaduct. Think Chatham, then manage your expectations down a bit, on account of Drogheda not having a dockyard, two universities or the Pentagon centre.

How expectations and indeed appearances can be deceptive. We called the Harbourmaster on the VHF for permission to enter, which was rather scary since I yet again was terrified of pronouncing his town wrong. No answer. So up we went, thinking that big ships wouldn’t be in the narrow channel at low water. How right we were – it was tiny, full of mud and wound between saltings. I suddenly felt right at home – it even smelled like the Medway, There were nice houses to look at as well as the caravans, and in amongst the mud a colony of seals. Things were looking up.

Then we got to the Harbourmaster’s office and the radio sprang into life. “Blue Moon, Blue Moon, Drogheda Port Control”. (Roger can indeed work the internet, it is Dro-a-da). Uh oh. What trouble were we in? “Sorry”, I replied, “we did call at the entrance but got no reply.” “Oh don’t you worry, we were just having a cup of tea. Now you’ll be headed up to FIddle Quay? It’s under the viaduct, just past the ship on your starboard side. Watch out now, you’ll only have 1.5m of water at the moment. When you’re tied up there you’ll have all you need, but you’lll be wanting to visit The Mariner for a good pint. You’re very welcome and thank you for coming”.

We suspect, having visited Drogheda, they have very few yachts. But that was the welcome we’d be waiting for. We managed to squeak under the viaduct while a train went over it – another first for me…

…and tied up on a muddy pier in the centre of town. There were no showers, no electricity, nowhere to pay and the only diesel was ten minutes walk away in the petrol station. The Mariner was rather empty but they did pull a great pint, and the bar across the way was part of a hotel and full of sad men so we felt right at home, especially when the waitress called us lovelies. But it was absolutely not a marina, and we were absolutely definitiely in Ireland, and probably Drogheda’s only tourists this year. I doubt many Irish families come to inspect Cromwell’s castle.

The HM had asked us to call him on the way out. We tried and again couldn’t get through. As we went past he called us again, Uh oh. “I just wanted to check yous’d had a good night.” he said. We asked about payment. “Oh no, there’s no charge. You’re very welcome.”

Somehow, Chatham-esque or no, were I coming this way again, I would pop in to Drogheda.

---

---