It was simply a matter of motoring along with the autohelm in control, while we reminisced about the high points of the summer and (inevitably) discussed where we would like to go next.

But there’s always something to stop you getting too relaxed and complacent - and this time it was ships. After our trouble-free crossing of the Dover Straits, it was perhaps bound to happen.

As we crossed the entrance to the Queen’s Channel – the principle route into the Thames for ships approaching from the south – there was one ship outward bound and four others coming in from seaward, and it was obvious that one or more of them was going to get in our way.

Furthermore, it looked as if we might have to duck behind the outbound one, and end up having to wait for all four of the inbound ships to pass, which might mean quite a delay.

In fact we could probably have held our course and crossed safely ahead of the outbound one, but we’ve always taken the view with ships that it’s better to be safe than (very) sorry, so we altered course and crossed behind him.

Fortunately the inbound ships were all picking up pilots, which slowed them down, so their “elephants holding each others’ tails with their trunks” formation was broken up. Two passed a safe distance ahead of us and the other two astern.

Apart from that the main interest of the trip was seeing how the offshore windfarms are developing. The Thanet farm, off North Foreland, was only stumps last time we saw it – but now these foundations are topped with revolving turbines.

Meanwhile, the London Array, on the Long Sand, on which work was just starting as we left, has reached the “stump” stage. We’re a bit split on the windfarm issue. Obviously renewable energy is a good thing, and we’d sooner see turbines on offshore sandbanks than on otherwise unspoilt Scottish hillsides.

But we do hope that once these structures have reached the end of their useful life, the sites will be cleared again, and they will not be left as rusting eyesores for ever.

There is an argument that, far  from unacceptable hazards to navigation, the windfarms provide useful markers, to help yachts and ships find their way through the treacherous sandbanks of the Thames Estuary, but in fact there are so many turbines, they probably only increase the potential for confusion. Anyway, it gave us something else to talk about, as we chugged our way across.

Far from feeling disappointed to be home, there is always a sense of achievement as we reach the entrance to the River Orwell, at the end of a cruise. We’ve met lots of new challenges during the summer, survived them all, and got home safely.

As we motored into Suffolk Yacht Harbour we were met with a chorus of hooters from friends’ boats, welcoming us home, and an invitation to share a celebratory drink. What a delightful ending to an absolutely great summer. We’re glad to be home!

For one thing, the visibility was phenomenal. We could already see Kent when we cleared the inner piers in Boulogne harbour and we could still see France as we entered the outer harbour at Ramsgate, six hours later.

The weather was benign, too. A bit too benign, really. We managed to sail (slowly) up the French coast from Boulogne to Cap Gris Nez, but the wind died completely as we approached the Traffic Separation Scheme – a sort of ship motorway which you are required to cross at right angles. So we were motoring in a flat calm, no headsail to obscure the view, and able to devote all our attention to watching the ships.

A flurry of north-east bound ships had passed as we were approaching the lanes, but then there was a huge gap, and we crossed the first lane without having to alter course to dodge anything – an unusual achievement. And, even more remarkably, the south-west bound lane was just the same.

We can’t remember crossing the whole scheme without having to give way to a ship somewhere along the line before.

The tide was kind to us, too. We flew up the Gull Stream (between the Kent coast and the Goodwin Sands) with about three knots underneath us.

We were delighted to discover, when we reached Ramsgate, that the marina, which was woefully silted last time we stayed here, has finally been dredged, to two metres at chart datum according to the berthing master. Our draft loaded up for cruising is probably 2.2 metres. At low tide on the outside of the linear pontoon, probably the deepest part of the marina, we were just about touching the bottom. Hope the silt stays at bay.

After three long days on the move, we were feeling pretty weary when we arrived, even after such a stress-free trip. So we decided to award ourselves supper out at the Alexandra Ristorante, an Italian restaurant on the seafront.

Apparently it has been open for 24 years, and we must have been going there as long. It provides excellent food and excellent value, and we were delighted to see it really busy on a Tuesday night – hardly the liveliest night of the week at the tail end of the season.

We regard the proprietress as an old friend, even though she does not appear to recognise us – but why should she when we only call once every couple of years?

Having conquered the Dover Strait today, we only have the sandbanks of the Thames Estuary to negotiate tomorrow, and then our summer adventure will be over. But by now, we’re actually looking forward to getting home.

What decided us to move on is that only two more days of westerly winds are promised by the forecasters, before another (brief) high pressure passes through, bringing motoring conditions. We’ve burned more than enough diesel this summer, and thought we ought to make the most of the favourable wind direction to cover the 60 miles to Dieppe and then the 50-odd to Boulogne.

So off we set. The sea was no longer breaking over the pier, but once we got outside we found it was still rather rough. But we soon had the mainsail up with a reef in it, and unrolled a tiny piece of the genoa, and set off on the broad reach to the Cap d’Antifer at blistering speed.

Great progress always minimises any sense of discomfort. Antifer has a port designed to accommodate the supertankers too large for the relatively shallow and narrow entrance to Le Havre. Other craft are required to cross the approach channel about four miles to seaward, to avoid interfering with these huge and relatively unmanoeuvrable ships.

For the first time we can remember, there was actually a supertanker in the port – obviously having already unloaded its cargo, and so maybe on the point of leaving. So we felt we ought to cross the channel in the right place, even though a fishing boat coming the other way ignored the rule completely.

The supertanker didn’t move, so we made the rather long detour unnecessarily. No matter, the sea was heaping up on that corner, as it always does on headlands, so perhaps the “offing” was no bad thing.

And now we had the wind behind us and the tide underneath us as we hurtled along the alabaster coast – so named because of its seemingly endless chalk cliffs – towards Dieppe.

In fact the wind was so much right behind us that we couldn’t sail the direct course, we had to “downwind tack” to keep the sails full. So we were sailing 30 degrees of the course we wanted, heading out to sea, until we decided we wanted to go back inshore to enjoy the scenic cliffs, when we gybed and headed in, 30 degrees off course – until we started to get too close to the shore, when we turned and headed out again, and so on.

For the first gybe, the autohelm steered while the skipper ran the mainsheet. In so much wind, it gave him a nasty rope burn on two fingers, so after that we “wore round” – making a complete circle up wind, rather than turning across the wind – each time. It’s ungainly, but it puts a lot less strain on crew and gear.

Even when the tide turned against us, with so much wind we were still making good progress over the ground. And despite our misgivings before setting out, we were actually enjoying one of the best day’s sailing of the summer. There was just one worry.

After deciding to miss out on Fecamp, closed for a regatta, we’d been alarmed to learn in Le Havre that Dieppe too had only restricted space for visitors because it was hosting the Solitaire du Figaro this weekend.

There’s really no alternative to Dieppe along this coast, for our draft. If they turned us away, we’d have no option but to carry on overnight to Boulogne, and after such a lively day at sea, we really didn’t want to have to do that.

The Figaro is the one design class in which young, mostly French sailors – there are international entries as well – serve their apprenticeship in the hope of becoming celebrated skippers in single-handed round-the-world big boat races like the Vendee Globe.

The Figaro class is huge – there would probably be 40 or 50 of them in Dieppe, effectively taking up all the visitors’ space. But to our relief, as we approached the port, we could see a steady trickle of them leaving (easily identified from afar by their identical-sized mostly carbon racing sails.)

Phew. We radioed in and asked for a berth for the night, and a man from the harbour office came along the pontoon and directed us into a space which must have been just vacated by one of the boats we had seen. Brave looked just a little incongruous, the only sober cruising yacht among a gaudy flock of Figaros, emblazoned in sponsors’ colours and logos in every colour under the sun.

We were glad to stop. We were also glad we had taken the decision to leave this morning. There’s an excellent forecast for getting to Boulogne tomorrow – and then we’re almost home.

There were heavy showers, too, and we were very lucky with our trip to the supermarket – there was a torrential downpour while we were inside the cavernous Super U, but the rain stopped long enough for us to carry the booty back to the boat.

After lunch the sky brightened and we went for our promised walk (taking waterproofs in the backpack). Le Havre doesn’t look very interesting from the sea – it was one of the RAF’s top targets during the War, and much of it is post-war concrete jungle.

But, as the pilot book promises, it is actually more interesting than most people expect. For one thing it has a 1.5km long shingle beach, which starts from the marina wall, and has long been a fashionable seaside holiday resort, which attracted many artists, Monet and Dufy among others, in its heyday.

As you walk along the prom, there are notice boards showing some of the most renowned paintings, in the locations where they were made. There are still a few of the buildings they would recognise, too, in this part of town.

But even more interesting today was the living display put on by the crowds of kitesurfers and windsurfers making the most of the stiff breeze and the breaking waves it was generating.

There must have been about 100 kitesurfers, between the 60 or more we managed to count in action, and the 30 plus who were readying their kit on the beach – firm sand below the high water mark.

Their colourful kites, like small spinnakers, their half moon shape achieved through inflatable “spars” and sail-type battens, made a fantastic spectacle as they zoomed about at remarkable speeds, somehow managing to avoid what seemed inevitable collisions in over-crowded waters.

We agreed that, if only we were a great deal younger, we’d love to have a go.

We spent it doing chores and dodging showers. Once the lock gates closed at mid morning, and we could no longer escape, the wind dropped. No doubt we could have gone quite safely, but it would have been wet and uncomfortable, so we didn’t regret the decision.

This morning things looked much better: a clearer sky, a lighter wind from a more helpful direction and a flatter sea. There were still some formidable shower clouds around, and the forecast was still mentioning thunderstorms, but we were able to silence the engine as soon as we cleared the harbour, and the boat set off on the 50-odd mile crossing as if she was in even more of a hurry than we were.

We made fantastic progress, even when the tide was against us. Two of the shower clouds that were scudding around had our name on, but in each case, we only caught a corner of the downpour. And the second one – the blackest cloud of the day – kindly went further out to sea before turning thundery.

The skipper was wearing oilie bottoms and boots for the first time since leaving home – the navigator skulked below, wash-boards in, during the showers. Reefs went rapidly in and out as the clouds came and went, bringing gusts as they arrived and lulls as they left. There was a rainbow behind us as we left St Vaast, and another, more spectacular version as we berthed in Le Havre.

We never really intended to come here. Our preferred target was Fecamp, providing a more direct route, and also home to one of our favourite restaurants, but sadly the port is discouraging visitors at the moment because it is hosting a major regatta for giant multihulls next weekend – and has taken all the fingers off the visitors’ pontoon to accommodate them.

So instead we have come to Le Havre, which we have often passed, but have never visited before. We plan to spend a day here tomorrow, to find out what we have missed, before heading on to Dieppe the day after.

In the meantime, we are celebrating a really enjoyable day’s sailing – one of the best of the summer so far – and also another significant milestone. Today we crossed the Greenwich Meridian, and our longitude is now measured in degrees east, not west, as it has been since early May.

We really are getting close to home now…

Last year we were held up in St Vaast for a week by the weather on our way south to Biscay, but we don’t hold that against it. It remains one of our favourite places, and we were keen to return on our way home this time.

From Cherbourg it’s a very easy trip – leave just as the tide turns eastwards, and the current speeds you towards and then through the Barfleur race and on past the Ile du Tatihou to the harbour entrance so that you arrive soon after the lock gates open.

After last night’s wild weather, it was surreally quiet this morning – the thundery low has moved on up the Channel (unlucky Thames, lucky skipper’s garden!), leaving light westerly breezes in its wake. More scattered showers were forecast, but fortunately none came our way.

With the wind and the tide behind us, the only drawback – apart from the rather dim visibility – was that once again we were having to motor, as the apparent wind was almost zero. However, when we rounded the corner at Barfleur, to head south towards Tatihou, the wind also turned, from west to south-west, and filled in nicely.

We came hard on the wind, not quite laying the course, but thoroughly enjoying a speedy sail in surprisingly flat water. We had to put in a small tack, but that was really no hardship. And by the time we arrived in St Vaast, the day was doing its best to brighten up, too.

The only nasty surprise was that when we started the engine to take down the sails and enter the harbour, the ship’s log, which was approaching 11,000 miles, reset itself to zero.

In theory this can’t happen, but the electronics have been acting strangely for the last few days. Nine years old, the chart-plotters are of course now long obsolete, and we face some major expense if we have to replace them – as is looking increasingly likely.

Trying to look on the bright side, the skipper quipped that if we wanted to sell the boat (which we don’t) as it has now “clocked” itself, its low mileage (and careful owners?) could be a useful asset!

Once we were moored, we were delighted to find we were on the same pontoon as Bram and Marian, on Cadance, the Dutch yacht (it lives at Vlissingen) we met in the marina at Gijon, when we had both just completed our first Biscay crossings in May.

Like us, they planned to explore the rias of Galicia and then return home, and we have been looking out for each other all summer, expecting to meet somewhere along the line. They were a few days behind us, because they had to wait in Gijon for a spare part to be delivered for their autopilot, which had failed on the crossing, but it was still surprising that our paths had not crossed until now.

So they came on board for evening drinks and we enjoyed sharing our memories of the places we had visited. Like us, they have hugely enjoyed their summer in Spain.

After last year’s rather adventurous trip through the Alderney Race – the tide rip between the northernmost Channel Island and the Cotentin peninsula of France – we were keen to have a quieter passage this time. Normally the tactics are to wait for the tide to turn in your favour, and then ride it, rather like those moving pavements in airports.

But with the wind forecast to strengthen from the north-east – the way we were heading – there was a danger of building wind-against-tide seas as the tidal stream strengthened. So we decided to leave early, against the tide.

There were two reasons: one, the wind and tide would be going in the same direction, making the sea smoother, and two, we stood more chance of getting to Cherbourg before the wind was blowing too hard.

We had originally intended to go straight from Alderney to St Vaast, on the far side of the Cotentin peninsula, but the forecast suggested that we would reach the Barfleur race (on the opposite “corner” from Alderney) just as the wind and tide were at their strongest – which would make things very rough indeed.

So we decided to take the safer option of aiming for nearer Cherbourg, which we were fairly sure of reaching before the wind got up too much. We left Alderney at 07.30 motoring against most of two knots of tide.

The sky was grey, but the sea was amazingly flat (even though we could see broken water south of us, off the south-eastern corner of Alderney, where the race was still speeding southwards) and the wind was too light to sail.

It was all very gentle and peaceful, especially compared with last year’s experience of this same stretch of water. After two uneventful hours, we were safely past the Cap de la Hague, and able to bear away towards Cherbourg – just as the wind filled in enough to allow us to sail.

Then the tide turned in our favour, and we were fairly flying, with the outer harbour wall and fortresses of this huge Napoleonic-era harbour soon in sight.

We reached the inner harbour just as the lunchtime shipping forecast revised the outlook for Wight (yes, we’ve moved into yet one more sea area nearer home) up from NE 5-6 to NE 5-7. By the time we were safely moored in the marina, it had started to rain, too.

An afternoon of chores followed (a visit to the launderette for the mate, more bilge inspections and general boat cleaning for the skipper). The thundery low is due to clear away towards south-east England tomorrow, so we’re hoping we may have fair winds to take us on towards St Vaast.

In the meantime, we’re very happy to be here, while the wind moans malevolently, heavy rain hammers on the coachroof, and there’s the odd rumble of thunder, just as the forecasts all predicted.

To start with it seemed we might need all of it – we set off motoring in flat, sunny, windless conditions, just like yesterday. But it’s a fact of life that once you have insurance, you don’t need it, and soon the wind filled in, from the south-east, an ideal slant for our north-easterly progress, and we silenced the engine and went sailing.

We were making fantastic progress, romping along under full sail with the tide underneath us, rapidly putting miles behind us. The course took us between the Plateau des Triagoz lighthouse and Les Sept Iles, and we were surrounded by strings of gannets – presumably from the huge colony on the biggest of the Sept Iles, which are a bird reserve.

After a couple of hours the wind dropped and headed, and the motor went back on again for a while, but by then we could already see Guernsey in the distance – the visibility was extraordinary.

And as we got nearer to the island, the breeze filled in again, and we sailed for another couple of hours before the wind dropped and headed, so that we could no longer lay the course.

We realised we were not going to get there before dark if we carried on doing the purist thing, especially as the tide was by now against us – and it absolutely whistles down the east coast of Guernsey. So we burned some more of that expensive French diesel on the final approaches to St Peter Port.

It’s been another lovely sunny evening, enjoying Scrabble and supper in the cockpit, but sadly now sunset is getting noticeably earlier. It’s another reason to feel consoled, rather than disappointed, to be heading homewards – and to celebrate the fact that today we made another significant step, heading from sea area Plymouth into Portland, in shipping forecast terms.

Camaret is one of our favourite places and it is also the “last stop” on the Atlantic coast before heading back “round the corner” into the English Channel. After making such good progress for the last few days we decided we had earned a day off to enjoy a final taste of Atlantic France.

We got the bikes out and headed south out of town towards the Pointe de Pen Hir, a spectacular headland which culminates in a series of rock stacks (almost small islands, we’ve never understood quite where the definition changes) known as the Tas de Pois (plate of peas).

We sailed past here yesterday, but looking down from the clifftop (obviously) gives a different perspective. This nationally recognised and protected site is a big attraction, and there were lots of coaches, cars and bicycles in the car park at the end of the road, but the crowds thinned as you walked further.

The headland is also home to two major war memorials, one to the Bretons who died fighting for the Resistance. We had seen this huge, stylised cross of Lorraine from out to sea, but not understood its significance.

The other memorial is to the merchant ships and seamen lost in the Battle of the Atlantic. This takes the form of a collection of huge anchors, presumably recovered from some of the ships lost, and is sited at a complex of German bunkers and gun emplacements.

It was another beautiful day, bright sun and clear blue sky, perfect conditions for enjoying the views – but not quite so good for cycling. We had meant to explore further round the coast but decided we were really too hot, so we merely headed back to town via a more scenic route, through the very prettily preserved village of Pen Hir.

Camaret, the strategic stopping point between the Raz de Sein and the Chenal du Four, is one of those “crossroads” ports where you’re almost bound to meet someone you know. We were invited for evening drinks with Nigel on Dutch Courage, a Southerly he is delivering single-handed from La Rochelle to Dartmouth. We met a couple of nights ago in Sainte Evette.

On our way along the pontoon to his boat we bumped into Simon and Fiona and their ship’s dog Bella, who had just arrived from Benodet in their Naiad, Brindabella. Last year we met Brindabella in L’Aber Wrac’h, and cruised much of the way home in company with them – like us they base their boat in Suffolk Yacht Harbour.

Tomorrow we will be leaving together, heading again for L’Aber Wrac’h – out of Biscay and back into sea area Plymouth in shipping forecast terms, a significant milestone on the way home.

The trip up the river, which is navigable for several miles, was certainly interesting. It was quite strange to be in such an “inland” setting after so long at sea. The water was almost bottle green, rather than the sea blue of the outer estuary, and the tree-lined banks were busy with bird life, especially egrets and herons. But sadly, all those anchorages are now packed with moorings. The pilot book is six years old. Just goes to show how quickly they go out of date.

There were still a few places you could anchor outside the moorings, but we felt the magic we were looking for was somehow lost, so having enjoyed the tour of exploration, and it not yet being lunchtime, we decided to carry on further up the coast to Audierne.

Heading out round the Pointe de Penmarc’h was dead upwind, but there was still very little breeze. Once we’d rounded Penmarc’h – which marks the boundary between South Brittany and North Brittany ­– and turned off the wind, we unfurled the headsail. There still wasn’t enough breeze to stop the engine, if we wanted to arrive before dark, but the sail gave us an extra knot.

I went below to make a cup of tea. No water came out of the tap. I went to the switch panel to turn off the pump (on the low side, as we were heeled by the sail) and found water coming up through the floorboards. I called the skipper: “Houston, we have a problem!”

Fearing the worst, he immediately switched off the engine. (Good thing we already had the sail out.) But I was fairly convinced the problem was fresh water, not sea – not unconnected with the failure of the tap to fill the kettle. A quick taste from the bilge (a bit oily but definitely not salty) happily confirmed this.

The problem was quickly diagnosed: the pipe leading off the pressure pump, right at the front of the engine and easily accessible, had an obvious split in it. Panic over. I filled the kettle with bottled water (we always keep a supply in reserve), we restarted the engine and carried on.

By now we were only a few miles off Ste Evette, the anchorage outside Audierne, and we decided the bilge cleaning operation could wait until then. We picked up a visitors’ buoy rather than anchoring as originally intended, because it meant we could get further into the shelter of the breakwater, with flatter water to operate in.

It took ten bucketfuls – 20 gallons – to empty the bilge. That’s about a quarter of the entire tankage. It seemed an astonishing amount, given the very short time the pump was running with the split hose. But the skipper was philosophical.

“I like to give the bilge a good clean now and then,” he said. “It keeps everything sweet.”

It’s certainly astonishing just how much fluff and muck seems to work its way down there, no matter how meticulously careful you are – and we do try to be.

The split in the armoured hose was a couple of inches long – a catastrophic failure. We attempted to repair it with Rescue Tape, which is supposed to “do everything except butter bread” as the skipper put it, but I think we knew it was a hopeless case.

As soon as we repressurised the system, water squirted out in all directions. We silenced the pump swiftly. We’ve got enough bottled water to see us through the Raz de Sein and on to Camaret in the morning. And there’s a chandlery there where hopefully we’ll be able to buy a new piece of pipe.

The repair will only cost a few euros – but it’s already cost us a lovely sunny evening that should have been spent basking in the cockpit, not grovelling in the bilges. There was a bright spot though.

The young man who came round in the dory to collect the harbour dues (11 euros for the buoy, which we thought not unreasonable under the circumstances) asked us if we would like him to deliver fresh bread in the morning. Oui, merci beaucoup!

So despite not getting ashore here, we can look forward to a nice crisp breakfast baguette.  

The weather was still grey and drizzly, but nothing like as misty as yesterday, and the forecast promised that the day would brighten up as it went along. With absolutely no wind, we did not even bother to take the cover off the mainsail. At least following the coast made for an interesting morning’s motoring.

When we reached Port Manec’h we found that (as is often the case) the visitors’ mooring buoys provided in the hope of attracting tourist revenue were occupied by local fishing boats. There was room to anchor outside them, but there was a nasty swell working its way into the harbour, and we did not want yet another bumpy night.

So, rather reluctantly (Port Manec’h does look like a very attractive place) once more we put Plan B into operation. We turned round in the harbour and headed the extra 12 miles or so to Beg Meil, a better sheltered anchorage about two miles west of Concarneau and two miles south of Port la Foret in the Baie de la Foret, where we enjoyed a lunchtime stop last year.

We didn’t regret our detour to Port Manec’h because it meant we had a very scenic passage following the coastline (and dodging in and out of the rocky shallows) whereas the direct route to Beg Meil would have taken us further offshore.

The afternoon brightened up as forecast, allowing the skipper to enjoy some fishing, using huge mussels, peeled off the piles in Locmiquelic at low water yesterday, as bait. Mussels are fascinating things. It’s been interesting to see just how much mud etc they have purged, filtering themselves clean in successive changes of sea water. (It’s also interesting to see just how quickly they restick themselves to each other and to the bottom of the bucket).

They look very appetising. But neither of us wants to eat mussels which have grown fat on the antifoul and worse that circulates in marina water. As it turned out, the fish apparently felt the same, because apart from one good bite – the proverbial “one that got away” – the fishing was unsuccessful, the first time harbour mussels have failed this trip.

Never mind, it was a lovely evening, with a huge full moon, lots of stars, and even a distant firework display – (probably from Port Manec’h!) – to enjoy. We had a cockpit toast to celebrate passing the 2,000-mile mark on our summer’s travels.

We learned that this weekend is the Fete des Langoustines, the high spot of Locmiquelic’s annual calendar. Unfortunately the weather literally put a dampener on the whole thing. We set off to walk into town, and found there was a giant flea market all the way along the promenade. Sadly, all the stalls with anything valuable and not waterproof to sell had given up the unequal struggle and shut shop. What was left was hardly exciting.

And, having dawdled through the stalls, marvelling at the lack of inspiration on offer, we arrived at the supermarket in time to find it had just closed for lunch. No matter, we’re British and a little precipitation (this was heavy drizzle, not real rain, after all) doesn’t get in our way.

We enjoyed a very pleasant walk along the foreshore, heading south towards Port Louis and then following the high water mark back round to the marina. We gave up our planned visit to the bird reserve because by now it was raining properly and we headed back to the boat – where we were greatly cheered by England’s glorious test match victory. Good old Radio Four.

Suitably inspired, we returned to the supermarket for afternoon opening because we plan to spend the next few nights at anchor. It continued to rain for the rest of the evening. We had planned to eat ashore, but could not face another soaking, so we cooked paella for supper aboard, and thought longingly of Spanish sunshine.

A boat nearby in the marina was running its Eberspacher – the first we have heard since leaving home in May. Another sign that the summer is coming to an end. We weren’t quite tempted to start our heating, but we did have fleeces on over our T-shirts.

Undeterred by the weather, the organisers of the Fete des Langoustines delivered the promised fireworks at bedtime. The rain was still pouring down, but fortunately the launch site was such that it was possible to watch the magnificent display from under the sprayhood.

We walked out along the pier to have a look at the marina sill shut at low water, and see the rocks we had sailed in over. There were plenty of people practising “peche a pied” (cockling) on them. It is a wonder that any shellfish survive anywhere along this coast, they are hunted so comprehensively.

It was another nice, sunny day so we thought it would be pleasant to follow yesterday’s “plan B” and head the 15 miles or so to Ile Houat for a night at anchor – an easy afternoon’s sail.

The course was due west and the wind was due west: another dead beat. Never mind, the weather was kind and the sea was flat, and although we had to tack it wasn’t unpleasant – just rather slow, as we logged 20-plus miles to achieve 15.

When we arrived, the huge horse-shoe shaped anchorage of Treach ar Gourhed (at the eastern end of the island, nicely protected from the westerly breeze) was just as crowded as we remembered from last year. There were probably 200 boats there, although technically it is supposed to be a no-anchor zone because of cables.

That might sound a bit crowded but it is such a big bay that it was easy to find a spot with plenty of space to put out as much chain as we wanted to, and we were soon relaxing in the cockpit, enjoying the delightful setting that makes this such a popular destination.

Some of the boats were leaving, presumably to return to the mega-marina at Crouesty, from where it is a convenient day-sail, but most, like us, were there for the night – to enjoy the peace and quiet and have a rest from paying marina fees.

The sky clouded over during the evening, but by then we probably needed a rest from the sun. It was still warm enough for Scrabble and then supper in the open air.

There was a gentle, rock-you-to-sleep swell when we fell exhausted into bed last night. We woke in the early hours to find the boat jumping all over the place. Our quiet mooring was not so peaceful after all.

There was hardly any wind, but for some reason the current was kicking up an uncomfortable chop – something which hadn’t happened last year when we spent two undisturbed nights in this very attractive spot. So we weren’t tempted to stay another day this time.

After such a long day yesterday we’d been planning a short move, either into l’Herbaudiere or just across the bay to Pornic, but the forecast promised north-easterly winds today before a return to westerlies tomorrow, and the chance to make some miles with a favourable breeze seemed too good to miss.

The tide times were perfect for heading to the drying harbour of Piriac, one of the places we missed last summer, so that is where we decided to go.

In fact the north-easterly breeze never materialised. We motored all the way in the nearest thing to a dead flat calm (the wind instrument registering one knot of true wind for much of the time). But never mind, the sun was shining, and it made for a very easy passage after the exertions of yesterday.

It was scenic, too. We crossed the entrance of the Loire, which marks the boundary between the Vendee and Brittany, and between the South Biscay and South Brittany sections of the Almanac – another milestone on the journey homewards.

We also had the treat of watching a pod of half a dozen or so dolphins apparently feeding a little way inshore of us as we approached the headland of Le Croisic.

There were lots of yachts on the move and we were rather afraid that we might find Piriac – another honeypot destination – as crowded as Port Joinville, so we had Plan B in place (scoot out the 15 miles to Ile Houat and anchor), in case we were turned away.

But in fact when we arrived, dead on high water, we found there was plenty of space. Once we had safely escaped the traffic jam in the very narrow entrance over the sill which keeps the water in the marina when the tide goes out, we were directed to a berth close to another English boat. Phil and Sue from Tigra not only took our warps and helped us moor but also invited us on board for a welcome cuppa.

Then we set out to explore what is, just as the pilot book promises, an extremely picturesque little town. It was such a lovely evening that we abandoned our plan to eat ashore and instead collected some assorted seafood (a crab, whelks, giant prawns) from the poissonerie for a cockpit feast.

This was accompanied by a live band on the quayside, and for once this was a positive pleasure. They were playing a slightly rocked-up version of Celtic folk music - really rather good. There was another spectacular sunset, too.

Altogether another very good day.

We had hoped to make a 50-mile passage to the Ile de Noirmoutier, but tacking against the wind adds many miles to any journey, and so we decided instead to head to Port Joinville on the Ile d’Yeu – 30 miles away, as the gull flies, but again, rather more, beating against the wind.

The wind had dropped to a really nice sailing breeze by this morning, but of course the sea was still rather lumpy (though nothing like as bad as yesterday) which slowed our progress somewhat. We weren’t unduly concerned. It was a stunningly beautiful day, and we weren’t in any particular hurry.

The tacking angles were pretty dire, as there seemed to be quite a strong current against us, as well as the wind, but we were in good company – there were boats all round us, following pretty much the same track and everybody was sailing.

This is really quite unusual – normally on uphill passages you see a lot of boats resorting to the engine, rather than doing all those extra miles. But in the sunshine, apparently everybody shared our view that we should enjoy the sailing for its own sake – particularly as the sea state gradually flattened as the day went on.

As we drew closer to Port Joinville we could see a steady stream of yachts going into the harbour, and we began to feel a little uneasy. The islands are notoriously crowded in high season. Last year everything suddenly went very quiet during the second week in August and we had been hoping that numbers might by thinning by now – but apparently not so.

We entered the harbour to find scenes of unmitigated chaos. There were three young men in dories struggling to marshal a mob of milling yachts. The marina was already full and they were building rafts along the harbour wall in the fishing boat dock.

Because we were one of the bigger boats, they wanted to put us against the wall and then raft smaller boats against us. We did not like this idea at all, not so much because of the harbour wall itself (although that would not be ideal) as because it would mean a constant stream of people tramping across our decks all night.

It was already 1700, we’d been at sea for eight hours and logged nearly 50 miles, and we were rather tired, but it didn’t take many seconds to decide to head back out to sea. Unfortunately the anchorages marked on the chart around the Ile d’Yeu are all rather exposed to the north-westerly wind, now reinforced with afternoon sea breeze. So the only option seemed to be to sail the extra 20-odd miles to Noirmoutier.

We guessed there’d be no more chance of a berth in the small harbour of l’Herbaudiere, but last year we’d enjoyed the anchorage at Bois de la Chaise, and we were confident of finding a more peaceful spot there.

The really good news was that, having made the westing out to the Ile d’Yeu, we could now lay the course to clear the south-west corner of Noirmoutier in a straight line, not quite hard on the wind. After being close-hauled all day, to let the boat speed along just cracked off was a real treat. And we still had clear skies and sunshine.

Although we were undertaking it somewhat reluctantly, it looked as if the second part of the journey was going to be the best part of the day. The only question was: would we actually get there before nightfall?

We weren’t too concerned. Last year we found our way from L’Herbaudiere to Bois de la Chaise in thick fog, so we knew we could do it in the dark if we had to. But we didn’t really want to be out that late. We’d already had a very long day.

It was one of those trips when everything goes right. We reached the corner of the island at dead low water, so the tide turned in our favour (at last), adding to our speed once we bore away (off the wind at last) heading round the north end of the island, past l’Herbaudiere and on towards the anchorage.

Sunset was spectacular, and by then we were only a mile or so out. There was daylight left to pick up one of the many vacant mooring buoys. We settled down to enjoy a belated “sundowner” in the gathering dusk, marvelling at the contrast between the over-crowded mayhem in Port Joinville and the delightful space and calm here.

We’ve logged more than 70 miles and spent more than 12 hours at sea, but the unlooked-for extra passage has been the highlight of the day – and we’ve made another significant step homewards. All in all we’re feeling pretty good about the day.

Lots of people were treating this as something of a sport, running along the top of the wave break, dodging the spectacular “showers.” It was easy to see how people get washed out to sea in stormy weather. We were shocked to see a young father pushing a baby in a buggy along the precarious path.

We were rather higher up on the pier, and so preoccupied with watching the antics of those below us that we were completely taken by surprise when an extra-large wave broke against the pier end, sending up a fountain of spray that soaked us, too. Time to move on.

We consoled ourselves with an excellent takeaway plateau de fruits de mer which we enjoyed in the cockpit on a sunny, if still rather breezy evening, wondering if we would be able to move on tomorrow, or whether we would be spending another day here.

The teatime shipping forecast had a gale warning for Biscay. The shipping forecast tells you the worst that’s going to happen in the next 24 hours, and the French inshore forecast and the Passage Weather website both indicated that there would be lighter winds during the early part of today, and the stronger winds would not come in until the evening.

So there would be an opportunity to make a decent passage – but we needed to head somewhere with excellent shelter where we would be able to sit out a gale for the next day or two. And that meant Les Sables.

The morning started bright and sunny, and it was obvious that lots of other people had the same idea of beating the weather – there was a steady stream of yachts leaving La Rochelle. We hoisted full main and unrolled about half the genoa. There was a good sailing breeze from the south-west, giving us a great slant once we turned north-west heading under the bridge between Ile de Re and the mainland, and on up the coast.

We were romping along at the thick end of eight knots, and it looked as if the 36-mile trip would be a piece of cake. But with sailing, you learn not to take anything, particularly the weather, for granted.

The wind was already getting up more than yesterday’s forecasts had led us to believe. (In fairness the latest from Meteo France on the Navtex now said 4 to 6, rather than 3 to 5). Soon we had to reef the main. Then there was a big black cloud with rain underneath it, and the wind not only got up again, but also headed – we could no longer lay the course we wanted. We rolled away more of the headsail.

We were forced to tack off a mussel farm, and headed back towards the Ile de Re shore, reminded how last year sailing up this same stretch of coast had turned into a character building beat. We begin to think our characters have been built enough.

Fortunately this time, as the black cloud cleared, the wind freed again, and dropped. In fact it dropped so far that with so little sail we could no longer make any speed in the lumpy sea left behind by the squall. So we unrolled the genoa, and then we took the reef out. Still no good. Reluctantly, we started the engine.

Not ten minutes later the wind came back, the rolls and the reef went back in (the winch winder’s arms were getting rather tired by now) and off we went again. Now it was the helmsman’s arms which were starting to suffer, as the sea state was building, and in those conditions the boat is much more comfortable with a steerer who can “read” the waves than with the autopilot, which can only “feel” them.

Navigation was no problem because there was an ever-increasing procession of boats heading for Les Sables, presumably deserting less protected ports and anchorages in search of shelter from the coming storm, or maybe just heading home at the end of their holidays, for this is the penultimate weekend of the French vacances.

Because the breeze was from the south-west, and still building, there was very little shelter in the south-facing bay outside Les Sables, and that meant taking the mainsail down in quite rough water. We were glad it was a familiar entrance. Once we were inside the piers, everything went miraculously calm and smooth, and we were soon safely moored in the familiar surroundings of H pontoon.

Perhaps the passage had been a little more adventurous than we were expecting, but, thanks to the mostly favourable wind direction, mostly sunny weather and excellent rate of progress, it had been enjoyable, too. And we are pleased to have made another significant step homeward.

But we will certainly be staying here for at least another day because, just as Meteo France and Passage Weather predicted, the wind began to fill in big time soon after we arrived. By supper time a full gale was howling through the rigging, the sky was black, the rain stair-rodding down, and we are very happy to be, once again, safely tucked in Port Olona.

So we spent the morning cycling again, this time heading down the east side of Oleron. It was even hotter than yesterday, the sun blazing down from a spectacularly blue sky, and we had to shorten the planned route to avoid over-heating. We went back into St Denis, where the colourful daily open-air market was in full swing. (We missed it yesterday, reaching the market square at the clearing-up-afterwards stage.)

Then it was time to go sailing again. Swung by the afternoon sea breeze, the wind was behind us, and with such a short distance to cover, we didn’t bother hoisting the main, just unfurled the genoa, and drifted gently towards Ile d’Aix, which was visible in the distance as soon as we cleared the piers.

Also visible was Fort Boyard, famous these days as the home of an  I’m a Celebrity…   type “reality” TV show. It still has the forbidding aspect of earlier, more hostile purposes.

There were more boats out sailing than we have seen at any one time so far this summer and when we reached Ile d’Aix it quickly became apparent that many of them had the same brilliant plan as we did.

All the moorings deep enough for us on the sheltered side of the island were already taken, and we didn’t much fancy the anchorage, criss-crossed by an endless stream of tripper boats.

We always knew that western France was going to be very crowded at the height of the French holiday season, and we already had Plan B in place. We decided that exploring the Ile d’Aix, which does look extremely attractive, will have to wait for another occasion, and turned the boat instead towards the Ile de Re – also already visible on the horizon, only another ten miles away.

Coming a bit closer to the wind actually gave us a better sailing angle, and the boat positively raced towards our new target, the anchorage off Rivedoux Plage on the south-east corner of the island, just below the bridge which connects Re to the mainland.

This too was relatively crowded – about ten boats anchored outside the private mooring buoys – but we know from previous experience that it is untroubled by tripper boats or other passing traffic.

So we dropped the hook and settled down to enjoy an absolutely beautiful, peaceful evening with a stunning sunset and no loud music coming from the shore. We like it so much we’re strongly tempted to spend another day here before heading the few miles into La Rochelle for the next dose of history and culture.

And the Pointe de Chassiron itself is tacky tourist tat central (although we did like the compass-rose garden round the lighthouse itself). But then walk out on to the point beyond the lighthouse, and the unspoilt open spaces begin.

The island is geared up for cycling. If all the countless campers drove around in cars, the roads would be impassable, but fortunately most of the tourists (ourselves included) opt for bikes as the best way to enjoy this low-lying and flat countryside – and there is a network of off-road cycle tracks to make the experience as stress-free as possible.

So we thoroughly enjoyed our tour of the relatively wild west coast of the island, where we were thrilled to see three hoopoes flying across our path. There are lots of stunning beaches, and in the flattest and most low-lying parts, salt pans attract an abundance of birdlife – including lots of white egrets.

In the town we found a copy of today’s Telegraph – a luxury unheard of for weeks. We also treated ourselves to supper out, at one of the range of restaurants along the quayside. All in all a thoroughly satisfactory non-sailing day.

Waterproofs on, we trudged to the yacht club for a final look at the weather websites. Although the prospect of setting out into the Bay of Biscay in the current conditions certainly didn’t appeal, we could see no alternative. Wind and sea promised to drop during the day and overnight, so things should in theory get better. And we faced head winds if we put it off another day.

So, without much enthusiasm, we headed to the supermarket for last minute provisions, and were leaving the marina at the planned departure deadline of 1000.

The forecast had promised a swell of one metre. There was certainly more than that, but the north-west Force Five gave us a great sailing angle, and the boat was absolutely flying. The 180-mile, overnight passage was going to be quick, it seemed. But it was also going to be a bit uncomfortable.

Usually on a long trip we take alternate off-watches down below, right from the start, to stack up as much rest as possible to see us through the night ahead, but snoozing down below was impossible in these conditions, with everything rolling and banging.

Keeping ourselves fed and watered was going to be a bit hit and miss, too. Even making a cup of tea would be fraught. But we’d made some sandwiches before we left and stocked up on “grazing” staples.

The forecast was that the wind and sea would gradually drop and the sky would eventually clear, but as the afternoon passed there was no sign of it happening. The sky was solidly grey, except where there were blacker shower clouds, which brought periods of stronger winds. Fortunately we seemed to escape most of the rain we could see all around us.

Once we were out in deeper water, beyond the edge of the continental shelf, the sea flattened out a bit, which was a merciful relief, and the consolation for the suffering was the great rate of progress we were making, under reefed main and much-reduced headsail.

Expecting to be sailing all night, we ran the engine for an hour before dark, to ensure the batteries had enough charge to run the autopilot, which was working very hard, and everything else.

No sooner had we switched it off than the wind dropped and headed. We unrolled the rest of the headsail, but in the confused sea, we could no longer make the speed we needed. So the engine came back on again.

The good news was that as the wind had dropped (as forecast), the sea state began to improve, too, and I managed to heat a morale-boosting pan of soup just before it went dark. Off-watch sleeping now became feasible, too. So we fell into the familiar two-hours-on, two-hours-off routine, punctuated by shipping forecasts.

It was a relief when the 0048 forecast moderated from the N to NW 4 to 5 which we had set out on (and which had certainly been mostly 5 to start with) to N to NW 3 to 4. It might mean motoring all the rest of the way, but it was going to be a lot less wearing.

I had the 0100 to 0300 shift, and when I returned on deck, the world had changed completely. The sea was now almost flat, the sky had cleared – there were millions of stars to look at, the view for once completely free of light pollution. 

My watch was further brightened by the arrival of a small pod of dolphins which played briefly in our bow wave. I couldn’t see them in the dark, of course, but they created spectacular trails of phosphorescence as they shot past, leapt out of the water, and splashed back in.

One advantage of this particular route across Biscay is that there is very little other traffic to worry about. We did meet a cruise ship, lit up like a Christmas tree, heading on a reciprocal course towards Bilbao, and a total of three fishing boats. Why is it that with the whole ocean to play in, they always seem to want the bit occupied by the only yacht within miles?

With two ganging up on me, I called the skipper a few minutes early, and left him to sort them out. He later told me that one had seemingly turned toward him deliberately – after he had cleared its bow at a safe distance. It passed less than 100 metres away.

I always enjoy sunset and sunrise on overnight passages, and had felt cheated that the evening sky was so overcast that there was not even a hint of sunset – it just went dark. So I was happy to go back on watch at 0500 with the clear sky rapidly lightening. In such conditions, sunrise should be spectacular.

Wrong. At precisely the wrong moment, fog descended. It didn’t last long, fortunately, but by the time it cleared, the sun was already well above the horizon.

The morning could hardly have been more different from the one before. The sea was flat, the sky was blue, the sun was shining – and the breeze was filling in. Last night we had been unable to sail fast enough because there was more sea than wind.

Now we had an ideal sailing breeze and a flat sea to help the boat make the most of it. We took out the reef, silenced the engine, and were soon heading towards France at a very impressive – and extremely comfortable – rate. Thank goodness, the weather forecasters had been absolutely right.

We had set off aiming for the northern tip of the Ile d’Oleron, leaving the decision about where we would actually stop until we saw what the wind, tide etc was doing when we got there. If the weather had still been horrible, we would have headed for the shelter of La Rochelle.

But now we had summer weather, so we decided to head for St Denis, a resort on the holiday island of Oleron, one of the destinations we were sorry we failed to reach while exploring the Atlantic coast of France hast summer.

The marina has a drying entrance, which means with our draft it is only approachable within a couple of hours of high water, but thanks to the spectacular progress we were now making, we were spot on course to reach it at precisely high tide. We couldn’t have planned it better.

There was one more bit of excitement before we reached our destination, however. There was a repeated warning on the radio about the dangerous wreck of a sunken motor vessel. I plotted its position on the chart and it turned out to be exactly on our course.

We could see a large “Phares et Balises” ship (very like Trinity House’s Galatea) up ahead, presumably guarding the wreck. As we approached we realised that the “motor vessel” was in fact a sizeable ship. About 20 feet of its bow was sticking out of the water, presumably made buoyant by air trapped inside.

We were in 45 metres of water at the time, the wreck to seaward of us, so presumably in a little more. At the angle it was lying (bottom up), assuming its stern was on the seabed, it must have been 100 metres long.

Seeing a shipwreck is always worrying. As we have been out of contact with newspapers etc we have no idea why the ship sank or what happened to its crew. We hope they all survived the incident.

Hot and sunny, just as we remember western France last summer, this coast could hardly be more different from the grey, wet and windy Spain we left.

The visitors’ pontoon at St Denis was crowded – as expected, at the height of the French holiday season. The harbour master kindly found us a berth in the residents’ part of the marina.

It’s good to be moored on our own finger, the boat safe from the hazards of rafting. It does mean you miss meeting all the other visitors, but after our adventures of the last couple of days we are very glad to be in this peaceful corner. It’s delightful to be in a harbour with no swell at last – for the first time since leaving Aviles nearly two weeks ago.

We’ve spent a very quiet, relaxing afternoon doing nothing very much except catching up on rest. But we’re looking forward to spending another day in St Denis tomorrow, taking the bikes exploring.

We were sad to leave Spain, but we are very happy to be safely back in France.

Instead of doing the shopping, we got on the Metro (very clean, very new, very efficient) and travelled the ten miles or so to the centre of Bilbao to do some sightseeing. The “must see” in Bilbao is of course the ultra-modern Guggenheim Museum, but neither of us are great fans of ultra-modernism, and it left us a bit cold – although we did like its flower-covered kitten mascot.

We were much more interested in the older buildings, especially in the old quarter. We were fortunate to arrive in the square in front of the Cathedral de Santiago just as a crowd was gathering, obviously for some celebration of the saint’s day, so we decided to wait and see what was going on.

Chief focus of our interest was a Basque pipe band. The costumes were very different from their Galician equivalents, and we think the pipes were, too – with just two drone pipes, unlike the four of Scottish bagpipes. The result is an altogether more tuneful, less aggressive sound.

We enjoyed their recital, though we chose not to join the procession which followed. Instead we went for a wander up and down the narrow streets of the old city, where there were all kinds of architectural treats to enjoy.

Then it was time to sit under an umbrella in a quiet square for what will probably be our final meal out in Spain this summer. Unfortunately, today as in so many recent days, the umbrella was keeping off the rain, rather than the sun! But that did not spoil our final feast of local specialities pulpo, bonito and Rioja.

Then it was time to catch the Metro. We were back on the boat in time to meet a deputation from the Spanish Customs. We think it quite amusing that although we have been in Spain for eight weeks, and have seen a Customs presence almost everywhere we have been, this is the first time they have asked to see our documents – and it is a bit late really, as we expect to be leaving their lovely country tomorrow, and heading for France.

The man solemnly filled in “La Rochelle” as intended next port, and then shook Richard’s hand. “Welcome to Spain,” he said, without irony, handing over a copy of the form with a flourish. “Please keep this and show it to Spanish customs if we visit you again!”

Later we were invited for drinks on Anhinga with Frank and Jennifer Singleton. Frank, who spent his career at the Met Office and now runs a renowned weather website for sailors, confirmed our view that, to make the most of the westerly winds which have aided our progress along Spain’s north coast (albeit making it wet and cloudy) we must leave tomorrow – the final “window” before the prevailing north-easterlies return.

At bedtime there was a spectacular firework display – proper “oohs and aahs” fireworks, not those annoying thunderflashes the Spanish seem so keen on setting off at all hours of day or night. It was of course officially the finale of the festival of St James. It also seemed a fitting salute to the end of our excellent sojourn in Spain.

On the port side was Pedrenas, the picturesque waterside village which was home to the late golfing superstar Severiano Ballesteros, who developed both a golf course and a marina there. Sadly the marina is too shallow for Brave. It all looks very inviting from a distance.

On the starboard side was the imposing waterfront of Santander. There is a marina right in the centre, but the pilot book warns that it is almost impossible to get a berth there, and in any case we are at its size limit, so our only choice was the grandly named Marina del Cantabrico, which is in fact a little way out of town.

The pilot book says: “The trouble with this marina is that it is miles away from anywhere civilised. It is in the middle of an industrial estate and the wrong side of the airport and motorway.” So we were rather expecting the worst – and pleasantly surprised to arrive in an oasis of green, the harbour surrounded on all sides by palm trees and other lush vegetation.

We had not been on the fuel jetty for long however, when a private jet landed – just the other side of the palm trees. The runway was astonishingly close, but palm trees must be good sound absorbers, because there was surprisingly little noise, even though Ryanair planes came and went (we timed the turnaround at 40 minutes) throughout the day.

The next priority was a visit to the supermarket, and there is a dedicated cycle track (one way) around the perimeter of the airport which takes you to a huge shopping centre complete with the largest Eroski we have yet encountered – once you have crossed the said motorway.

Setting off along the cycle path, we had the unusual experience of being overtaken by a Ryanair 737 hurtling along the runway to take off. A few minutes later there was another one – and by now we had reached the take-off zone. We’ve never been that close to a jet take-off, and it was an impressive spectacle.

After we’d collected the shopping, we followed the cycle track on round the other side of the airport, and this part was much more enjoyable, as instead of heading through the pilot book’s industrial estate we were now out in the countryside.

The cycle track was very busy with families heading for the riverside beach, and the inevitable power walkers and runners. It was a lovely sunny afternoon, despite yet another forecast of showers, and it was great to see so many people out enjoying the open air.

When we reached the far end of the runway we had another close encounter, this time with a plane coming in to land almost over our heads. All in all, the shopping trip was a great adventure.

In the evening we’d planned to head into the city on the bus (it’s a 20-minute trip and an hourly service, and the marina thoughtfully provides a timetable in its welcome pack) but we got waylaid.

Ray and Judy from Start Again, friends of Barry and Maggie from Elska, invited us on board for drinks. They are heading west and were keen to pick our brains about which places to visit and which to avoid. In return they gave us invaluable advice about visiting Bilbao.

They are cruising in company with a Dutch couple in a Salona 40 (they met each other while crossing the Bay) and Bart and Bertha were also “taking wine.” We all got on very well, and the pre-dinner drinks stretched on until Spanish supper time.

By then it was too late to think about heading into the city. But it had been a most enjoyable evening. A good day, in fact. We still can’t believe how quiet it can be, living alongside a busy runway.