Blue Moon's trip around the UK

Roger too has now joined the ranks of ex-guests, chauffered to Belfast by nephew Henry after an excellent dinner (thank you Roger) at Daft Eddie’s on Sketrick island. Amongst his many parting comments was one that whilst the blog is entertaining there doesn’t seem to be much sailing involved, which is far from the case – especially with Roger on board, who like the legendary racing sailor he is will hoist or unfurl any available sail at any opportunity, even in the demonstrable total absence of any wind whatsoever. As a result I have tacked Blue Moon more times in the last week than in my entire ownership, hoisted and dropped both spinnakers several times a day, and generally improved my Fitbit calorie scores on all points of sailing.

This need for eco speed can have its downsides, especially when you are sailing into Loughs (yes we are in Northern Ireland now) where the tide runs at such speed that you can’t sail or motor against it, aforesaid Loughs are, say, x miles away, you are travelling at 6 knots and it is more than x/6 hours until the tide turns. Oh yes, not just a physical workout this sailing lark.

Drogheda to Carlingford is a good example. We have to leave Drogheda on the ebb, we head up at the entrance and aim for the misty mountains in the distance. Yes, do think Lord of the Rings meets Game of Thrones because we are heading for NI and the mountains are beautiful and misty. There is a good breeze, we have full sail up and are cracking upwind at over 6 knots which is not bad for a loaded cruiser. The mountains get closer and reveal themselves to be stunning, coming right down to the water’s edge, and the internet informs us that Carlingford Lough is indeed Ireland’s only fjord. It looks the part. It’s also the border between ROI and NI, and a cruising forum suggests that red ensigns are sometimes better kept below.

Unfortunately it is also already abeam, and the tide still ebbing, so the sails come down, the engine comes on, we turn into the entrance and are now doing one knot over the ground. We had identified a picturesque anchorage with a castle where elves might have embarked for the old world (sorry I haven’t watched Game of Thrones) but quickly calculate that although we can see it clearly it will take an hour or more to get there against the tide. More worryingly we will certainly run out of diesel on the way, as our marina avoidance strategy means we only have a few hours’ worth left.

So we pick a less picturesque bay that we can get into by motoring hell for leather sideways, drop the anchor, put the kettle on and settle down to an hour of watching the tide sluice past 100 yards away. I call up the marina to check they have a berth and they assure me they do, and that there will be two metres of water and they are there until six. Hurrah. We can get diesel and tie up before they go home.

Carlingford marina is in the most beautiful location under a mountain which we are both drooling over climbing (Roger has an excuse so we don’t).

It is ten minutes from the pub that sells the most delicious Carlingford oysters, crabs, mussels and Guinness. What it doesn’t seem to have is staff – they have all gone home – or two metres of water, which we discover by running firmly but stickily aground just inside. Hurrah for the lifting keel again. Nor does it have a fuel pontoon. This is serious: tomorrow’s forecast is for no wind so we will have to negotiate a trip to the petrol station, but at least that should provide some blog fodder.

We are in the office at one minute past nine next morning to be met by a scowling man with an accent so thick we are struggling not to look rude while conversing with him (a foretaste of things to come as we head north). “Oh yes”, we think he said, “we go home at five. It’s a marvel you got in, there’s barely any water on a low spring tide. Diesel? No.” We look crestfallen, and for a moment he seems to crack and sucks his very rural teeth for a while. “Well, we do have green diesel, but I’m not supposed to sell it to you.” “Green diesel?” we reply. “What’s that?.” “Well, it’s like red diesel but green” he explains. (Note to non-cruisers: red diesel is an absurd UK tax dodge whereby cruising sailors can buy commercial fuel marked as such with a red dye if they claim they’re going to use 40% of it for heating. HMRC have retained it purely to spite the French. Apparently the Irish version is green, and in the asbence of desire or opportunity to spite the French, they don’t sell it for leisure). He looks at us long and hard, his gut-felt dislike of our ensign (even worse: blue, not red. We are Posh Brits) competing with the possibility of (a) making a sale and (b) getting rid of us. “I suppose I could sell it to an English yacht.” He spits the word out like a bad oyster. “At last!” exclaims Roger in an attempt to get him on side with humour, “a Brexit benefit!”. The attempt fails.

He points to the rusting hulk outside the office which is apparently full of green diesel and invites us to come alongside. Unfortunately it is indeed set up to supply trawlers and delivers its green gold at around 1,000 litres per second, so a fair tax-free dollop goes onto my teak and into his marina. Luckily it is Roger standing next to him at this point, trying to look charming, an effect ruined when his credit card fails to work.

I am totally with Roger. As soon as he’s deployed his other credit card (Pin failure, not poverty – ed) we put the throttle to the floor, clap on all sail and head out as fast as we can.

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