It had occurred to me that sailing on my own was more likely to result in experiences worthy of a blog: Bill Bryson, Jonathan Raban and Paul Theroux didn’t take their mates along for a reason. Much as I have enjoyed having guests on board, it does seem that things happen when they’re gone, and no sooner had Owen headed off to the train station this morning than three things I hadn’t expected to happen did.
That’s not entirely true: Jay Rayner was part of the plan in a roundabout way. I like Jay Rayner, not just because I once cooked him lunch and he didn’t complain (he wasn’t a restaurant critic then) but also because I am a fan of his column in The Guardian. So is my good friend Philip and a downside of this trip is that we can’t sample Jay’s latest find until October. So it was very kind of Philip to send me his review of a seafood restaurant in Coleraine; Sarah saw it too and it was so positive she was prepared to park her dislike of fish for an evening, and a visit became a key part of our plan. But disaster befell – first, it turned out that every marina and mooring in Coleraine was booked all week, then that the restaurant was booked all month. Never mind Padstow, Coleraine is clearly suffering from the Rayner effect. We had more traditional Irish fare in Ballycastle, which I doubt JR will bother with.
Owen and I ended up in Portrush instead, which is more the Bournemouth to Coleraine’s Padstow, with the addition of a famous golf course. It was an ideal spot for a heatwave: full of very jolly Half Termers: beaches full of kids, teenagers diving into absurdly cold water for a dare, Maud’s award-winning ice cream yet again and more restaurants, pubs, bars and nightclubs than strictly necessary for a small town. All very lovely, but not exactly quiet. But it did have a train station and – best of all – after his trip to Coleraine our Jay had breakfasted on the most extraordinary Sticky Bacon Bap in Portrush at a cafe called Babushka. This turned out to be on the pier right next to the harbour. Having cooked Owen a very unimaginative but early breakfast I was through the door the minute it opened to find something lifted straight out of Hackney: the coffee was on a blackboard naming the producer and the roaster, the menu was entirely based on avocado, and nothing cost less than £8. It was like coming home. My opinion of Portrush went up still more when I read the description of the Smokey Bacon Bap, and I quote: “Sticky Soy & Gochujang glazed, slow braised crispy pork belly, sourdough Shokupan milk bun, tahini & miso sauce, zingy red cabbage asian slaw”. I had to try this, Jay had loved it.
I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it, but it was quite the stickiest and most frankly bonkers thing I have eaten for breakfast outside of Japan. And in Portrush, of all places. People were queuing ten deep outside.. By the time I’d finished it I needed to go to the Spar for an old fashioned stale croissant to mop up the Gochujang.
Then something happened which – in the context of the above – simply put my brain into spin mode. I heard a huge bang and jumped into the cockpit. Then another, and quickly it became a rhythm. There were pipes too, and flags. I wasn’t dreaming, but it was quite the loudest I have heard anyone bang a drum, and there were hundreds of them. I wasn’t sure if you were supposed to video something as important and tribal as this, but I didn’t actually have a red ensign on my back and managed not to shout ‘jolly good show, Orange Johnnie’ or otherwise give my identity away.
I suddenly felt like a real foreigner again, and a very long way from Hackney.
Things got more interesting still, but on a day like today I can just touch on the high points. Mid blog there was a bump and a cheery crew of racers with the J-92 moored opposite had come alongside. They had all kissed the Blarney Stone quite recently and were all over me with the news: they couldn’t come alongside the pontoon as there was a medical emergency, would you believe it someone had been bitten on the thumb by a shark so they had, and wouldn’t you know but every ambulance in the county had to be down at the dock, and it was only a baby wee shark and nothing better than for supper, and it was Macfarlane’s boat he was on and Macfarlane was the eejit that shoulda’ been bit, and we’re off to Greencastle now and you won’t be wanting to go to Moville at all, Greencastle has pontoons so it has and you should be there and we’re off up to the Yacht Club for a pint and won’t you be joining us now?
I really didn’t fancy a Guinness at 12 o’clock and I didn’t want to go to Greencastle on a pontoon because (a) I had had enough of pontoons and was looking forward to a quiet night at anchor off Moville and (b) both ports are on the Republic side of Lough Foyle and if I went ashore I would have to report to HMRC and the coastguard and all that Brexit palaver whereas if I anchored off I reckoned I could get away with it.
A glorious sail over to Lough Foyle, Inishowen Head in Donegal meaning this was the Westernmost mainland part of the UK. Drifting through the water in a gentle breeze I am whisked up the channel on the flood tide past Greencastle which seems to be full of trawlers. I pat myself on the back, and head up into Moville Harbour. Disaster. It is about the size of a tennis court. One side is full of tiny fishing boats, the rest crab pots. I try to find somewhere to anchor away from the pots but run aground constantly. I give up, dig out the tricolor courtesy flag and the HMRC spreadsheet and and motor flat out against the tide half an hour back to Greencastle. There are no pontoons, there are dozens of fishing boats and a very busy ferry. Tied onto a raft of five local yachts and two fishing boats are my friends from Portrush, or at least their boat is. I come alongside gingerly without scratching anything and tie up just in time for them to come back.
“Ah now, didn’t we tell you now, you’d be better off here now you’re here but we’re away back to Portrush now so we’d better slip ourselves out behind you now and listen up you’ll have a grand night here so you will, don’t you mind about these fishing boys just you head on up to the Ferry Bar and Damien there will serve you a good pint and tell him Bruce sent you, don’t worry about Euros last time we were there we paid in Crypto so we did, and then you’ll be having the fish and chips it’s right off the wee boats here and the best you’ll ever have…” They had clearly taken their own advice regarding Damien and the Yacht Club earlier: they cast off both my lines by mistake, one of them ended up on my boat not his, then the trawler inside, but in the end they got away without hitting anything and left me in a sweaty heap on the floor.
This time I took their advice. Damien welcomed a passing acquiantance of Bruce’s like a long lost brother, he did pull a good pint and in the beer garden they were playing a version of gaelic football that involved car roofs. The sun shone, it was hot, everyone was happy, no-one banged a drum and I felt a lot less foreign, even though I was and am. And sorry Morton’s of Ballycastle, if it’s the All Ireland Fish and Chip award you want, you’ll have to beat The Jetty in Greencastle.
Blue Moon's trip around the UK 
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