As we left Cherbourg, around 0900, the time chosen to arrive at the Barfleur Race before it was running too hard, the gamble seemed to be paying off. The sun was shining from a clear blue sky, the sea surprisingly flat, and we were making encouraging progress, despite being hard on the wind, with a reef in the mainsail and a few rolls in the jib. The only really depressing thing was that there was a steady procession of swallows flying southwards past us, heading from the UK towards Africa.

The other unmistakable sign that autumn is here was the condensation on the boat this morning, both inside the windows and outside on the decks. It really is time we were heading homewards.

But thanks to the wind direction, and the surprising strength of the breeze, on the edge of a settled area of high pressure, which should mean much gentler conditions, we’re struggling to get there.

We weren’t laying the first waypoint of our route, La Pierre Noire north cardinal buoy, marking the outer limit of the off-lying rocks, so we stood on out to sea for most of an hour. Then, when the log was reading 8,000 miles, we tacked.

We didn’t have the traditional toast we routinely make every time the log passes the thousand-mile mark because a) it was rather early for an alcoholic drink and b) at that angle of heel it would have been quite difficult to pour one, so the tack was an alternative way of marking the milestone and recording it in the log.

It looked like a good tactical move anyway: we were comfortably laying La Pierre Noire on its safe side, and now had the tide in our favour. The plan was to tack off the buoy, tack again when we could lay the next mark, Basse du Renier north cardinal, from where it would be a progressive bear away round the Pointe de Barfleur and the Pointe de Saire to St Vaast.

The snag was that both the wind and the sea were steadily rising – much earlier than forecast. Where it had been smooth and blue when we set out, the water around us was exhibiting increasingly vigorous white horses. The autopilot was no longer happy. The skipper took over the steering.

“Tell me about the Barfleur race,” he said. The navigator was already starting to worry about that. The tide was good and neapy, which should have meant it wouldn’t be too bad, but because we were tacking, and having to sail a bit free, because of the increasingly lumpy sea, we were making slower than expected progress.

By the time we reached the race, it would be going at full bore, and with the strong cross wind, would be kicking up quite a sea. After our bouncy experience in the Alderney Race a few days ago, we weren’t terribly enthusiastic to try it.

In any case, we were somewhat concerned about the entrance to St Vaast, which is narrow and not very well sheltered from the north-east. Parking in the marina was going to be a bit tricky, too. We discussed the situation for at least 30 seconds before a unanimous decision was made: we eased sheets and headed back towards Cherbourg, with its entirely safe, all-states access.

Going downwind our progress was spectacular. The wind was still getting up and already the waves were building to almost surfing proportions. We’d logged 12 miles getting out to La Pierre Noire – just seven on the way back.

Once inside the three breakwaters at Cherbourg – protecting the Grande Rade, the Petite Rade and the marina – we came under the shelter of the huge old Transatlantic Terminal building, which killed the wind completely while we moored back in the same berth we’d left just over three hours earlier.

But not many minutes later the wind came in with a vengeance. Despite the protection of the huge and grand old railway station (and the much more modern multi-storey hotel beside it) the boat is rocking about a bit in its berth, and the wind is still rising, big gusts screaming in the rigging of the yachts (mostly Brits like ourselves waiting for a window to get home) scattered across the unusually quiet visitors’ section of this colossal marina.

We’re in no doubt at all that the decision to turn back when we did was the right one. The Barfleur race right now (about when we would have reached it) would seriously not be much fun. But that leaves us no further forward.

We’re starting to think that we may have to abandon our plan to head home along the French coast, and instead take the first opportunity that presents itself to nip across the Channel into home waters.

It would be a bit of an anticlimax ending what has been such a brilliant summer. But, as we reminded ourselves today, sometimes it’s better to take the safer option rather than the most exciting one.

Looking inland from the marina, the feature that immediately catches the eye is an impressive cliff, topped by Fort Roule. Obviously the view from up there would be fantastic. We decided to go and take a look.

The tourist office provided a map: there’s a road with a few hairpin bends which climbs up to the fort, but no alternative footpath. We hadn’t realised, but of course it’s obvious, that this strategically sited fort had a crucial role after D-Day. In fact it was “Objectif Un” for the invading Americans who landed on Juno beach aiming to take Cherbourg from landward.

I hope the soldiers who carried out Objectif Un all had better heads for heights than me. I hardly dared look down over the parapet.

The fort now houses the Museum of the Liberation, but with our usual impeccable timing we arrived just as it was shutting for lunch. Never mind, the view itself was well worth the considerable climb (just short of 200m above sea level).

Cherbourg claims to be the biggest artificially enclosed harbour in the world, with its huge outer breakwaters, punctuated by forts enclosing the Grand and Petite Rades. Within them lie a giant naval base and the former transatlantic terminal from the heyday of the great ocean liners, now much frequented by even larger cruise ships, as well as the modern ferry and freight ports and of course the huge 1,285-berth marina, which is almost lost in a corner of the vast complex.

It was fascinating to see the whole lot spread out below us like a giant map. From that high up the TGV waiting in the station looked like a toy train set.

Immediately below the fort (one hairpin down the road) is the entrance to Les Galleries 117, tunnels dug by prisoners of war on Nazi orders, to create an underground fortress, “a strategic point in the Atlantic Wall.” Now a national monument, these too are open to the public, but shut for that extended lunch hour while we were there.

Even from the outside, we could see a sobering amount of bullet and shell damage to the concrete fortifications around the entrance. It can feel strange to be enjoying yourself in a place that obviously saw much suffering and many casualties. But I suppose we are making the most of the freedom that those men were fighting for.

Anyway it was altogether a brilliant outing (the morning’s walk also took in another good park, Le Jardin Public, at the foot of the cliff) and we felt it justified our extra day in Cherbourg, a place we now have altogether more positive views about.

Because we have stayed here so long, the tides have moved on, so now the plan is to head “round the corner” to St Vaast tomorrow, when the winds are still forecast to be east or north-east. That will cut 20 miles off the next leg to Fecamp, and by the time the wind is expected to shift round to the south-east, we will be able to leave St Vaast (very) early in the morning.

However, a glance at the tide tables revealed this was not really an option. The marina there is locked in, and with high tide now at lunchtime, we wouldn’t be able to leave early enough to get across the Seine Bay to our next target, Fecamp, in daylight.

That means we’ll have to head for Fecamp - 80 miles away - direct from Cherbourg. It will be a long day, especially in the forecast easterly winds. So we decided to stay in Cherbourg for an extra day and leave at first light in the morning.

We’ve visited Cherbourg many times over the years, as it is a vital stopping off point en route to the Channel Islands and beyond, one of the few all-states harbours where you can wait for the right tide to tackle the Alderney Race, for example.

But sad to say that is how we have always treated the city: as a sort of waiting pontoon and shopping stop. So we decided it would be a good thing to spend a day here and do some exploring beyond the marina and the Carrefour.

And most enjoyable it has proved. “You know, this is really rather nice,” declared the skipper, who has previously dismissed the city and its marina as “useful but boring.”

From the marina (and on the walk to the Carrefour) it seems a bit of a concrete jungle, like too many French ports bombed to oblivion by the Allies and then rebuilt in a hurry, and apparently without much imagination, in the immediate post-war period.

But step away from the main thoroughfare and there are pedestrianised side streets with interesting old buildings and pavement cafes a plenty. There’s a pleasing park, too. And Richard found a fishing tackle shop that met with his approval.

The forecast east or north-easterly wind is not ideal for heading to Fecamp, and with our draft there aren’t too many places on the Normandy coast we can divert to. (Deauville and Ouistreham both require high tide for access, and the timing’s all wrong.)

So the worst case scenario is that we may end up somewhere completely different tomorrow night, if the wind dictates. It might be Le Havre – or even Brighton.

But we’re seriously hoping that we will be able to get to Fecamp, another long-standing favourite which we have not visited for a few years now. We’ll see…

The saving grace was that the wind probably wasn’t going to be very strong, with high pressure building. So we set the alarm for the 05.20 Shipping Forecast, having worked out that 06.00 was the right time to leave, to make best use of the tide and avoid the worst of the race.

The forecast was supposed to make up our minds, one way or the other, but it was borderline. We dithered for a few minutes, unsure whether just to get back into bed. But all around us engines were starting up as other yachties set off to make the most of the north-going tide. We felt it would be a bit feeble not to join them.

As it turned out, the “safety in numbers” feeling was just an illusion: most of them got to the top of the Little Russell (the channel between Guernsey and Herm) and turned left, heading for the West Country. Only us and a couple of others were heading north-east, towards Cap de la Hague.

It was a bright, sunny morning with great visibility – we could see exactly where we were going, 20-odd miles away. But there was quite a sea running, left over from the previous day’s stronger-than-forecast northerly. And this morning’s northerly, though rather lighter, meant we couldn’t quite sail the course we wanted.

We couldn’t do the purist thing and tack all the way to the “corner” because it would have taken too long and we’d have lost the tide, and trying to round Cap de la Hague against both wind and tide would be hopeless. So we stuck two reefs in the mainsail and motored as close upwind as we could. We still had to do a couple of tacks, to miss nasties like the Scole Bank which kick up an even bigger sea in such conditions.

And that meant that we arrived at the Race a little later than planned – or indeed wise!

To start with, it didn’t seem too bad. We were whizzing along at nearly 12 knots over the ground (half from the engine/sail, half from the tide) and the water was surprisingly flat.

It began to seem as if all our forebodings and preparations (we were wearing full oilies for the first time all holiday, and lifejackets and safety harnesses) were over the top. They weren’t. Quite suddenly we were in really rough and extremely confused seas. The autopilot didn’t know which way to turn. The skipper had to take over. Yours truly just hung on.

The one advantage of the roaring tide is that the suffering doesn’t last long. Soon we were back in relatively flat water, and we dared to think the worst was over. It wasn’t.

As we flew past Cap de la Hague (well out to sea, where we thought we would escape the piling waves) we suddenly hit another stretch of breaking water, even more confused than the last.

The good news was that, with the tide sweeping us northwards, we now had an “angle” we could sail. The engine was silenced, the jib unfurled, and soon we were out of the race and enjoying flat seas, sunshine, interesting scenery – everything cruising should be about really.

That’s the strange thing about sailing. One minute you’re enduring “character-building” conditions (it’s called “adventure training”), the next it all goes calm and quiet, and you’re left wondering what all the fuss was about.

As we left the race behind and turned away from the wind, we had to take the reefs out of the sail because we weren’t going fast enough. The oilies came off too. It was back to summer.

Safely moored in Cherbourg, we were glad we had decided to leave St Peter Port, and not given into the temptation to go back to bed.

We took advantage of one of Cherbourg’s great facilities – the Carrefour hypermarket at the end of the docks – and did some overdue reprovisioning. We enjoyed supper in the cockpit on what may be one of the last evenings it’s fine and warm enough to do that.

The sad thing is that by 20.00 it was going dark and getting decidedly cool. It’d definitely time to head homewards. The only snag is that now the wind has swung round to the east, and it’s forecast to stay that way for a few days. But that’s OK. We’re not really in any hurry to leave France yet.

We followed Perseverance out of the marina. They were planning a single hit to Cherbourg (they had to get there, to get their delightful ship’s dog Blackberry on to the ferry for home.)

This meant taking a foul tide through (or rather round) the Alderney Race, an idea we didn’t fancy much. So we decided simply to take the fair tide up to Guernsey, stop for the night, and then take the next day’s fair tide to Cherbourg.

As we left St Quay, there wasn’t quite enough wind to sail, it had fallen away so much, but as we cleared the coast, it gradually filled in to the forecast NW5 – just in front of the beam, the ideal angle for rapid passage making.

The engine was silenced and we were flying along, in bright sunshine, just as forecast. It was turning into one of the best sails of the holiday, well worth waiting that extra day (even missing out St Malo) for.

The visibility was endless (as it often is when there’s a lot of breeze about). By the time the French coast disappeared behind us we could see most of the Channel Islands (except Alderney, hidden behind Guernsey) spread out like a map. Navigation wasn’t difficult.

The breeze continued to build, and eventually we had to reef the mainsail, but by then we were only a handful of miles from our target, a bit sunburned (back in shorts: our legs have been covered up for so many days now that they’ve lost their immunity) and very happy indeed.

One downside to our draft is that we can’t get into the marina in St Peter Port and have to raft on the pontoons in the harbour pool outside. It being a Bank Holiday there was a JOG race from Cowes, with lots of deep-keeled boats already there, but we were fortunate that the harbour master put us alongside one that was leaving on the evening tide.

After we let him out, we were one of the very few boats not in a raft for the night. We’d actually planned to take the water taxi ashore, once we’d seen him safely out, but it was such a pleasant evening that we decided to stay in the cockpit and watch the moon rise.

The weather forecast for tomorrow isn’t very clever (again). We weighed up the options: going to Alderney (too exposed), Cherbourg (we didn’t fancy the Alderney Race in the forecast Force 6) and decided we’d simply move up the Guernsey coast to Beaucette marina (better sheltered than St Peter Port, and with the advantage of plug-in power and walk-ashore access, which the outside pontoons at St Peter Port don’t have) in the morning.

And by 0900 it was once again blowing old boots and raining steadily. On my way back from the bread run, I stopped to have a chat with Perseverance and found that John and Aafke had studied the Met in detail on the internet, and decided to stay for another day. The wind is due to moderate slightly tomorrow, and more importantly, it promises to be sunny.

We decided there was a lot to be said for this approach. We just hoped Brindabella was not having too miserable a time of it. As the wind continued to rise, we were glad not to be out there with them. We skulked below for most of the morning while the rain hosed down, and the boat bounced about in the 5 gusting 7.

In the afternoon the sky cleared, though it remained pretty breezy, and we went for another enjoyable coastal walk. This time we headed south from the marina, and were astonished to realise just how far the tide goes out with the current top-of-springs 10-metre range.

The only real downside to the additional enforced delay (four nights here is the longest we have stayed anywhere since our early season hiccup at St Vaast) is that we have reluctantly decided that we will now have to miss out on St Malo.

The weather pattern continues to be extremely unsettled, and it looks like a game of grandmother’s footsteps, grabbing any “window” to take a leap in the right direction, and then being prepared to stay for a couple of days until the next helpful lull presents itself.

So now tomorrow’s plan is to head to St Peter Port. It promises to be quite a lively sail. But at least it shouldn’t be raining.

This is rather like Walton and Frinton on the East Coast: St Quay is the candyfloss resort (Walton on the Naze), Portrieux the rather more understated part (Frinton on Sea) of what realistically is a single settlement.

Anyway, it’s a good place to be tucked in with a storm forecast. Yesterday the weather was so bad that we didn’t do very much exploring. We went ashore and found a paper shop and a small supermarket, and by the time we’d done the essential shopping it was absolutely tipping down, so we returned to the boat.

When the rain eventually stopped Richard gave the (well-rinsed and pre-soaked) exterior of the boat a rather overdue clean while yours truly gave the interior an even more overdue seeing-to.

In the evening it was our turn to host the evening drinks before we decamped to Perseverance for a combined-effort supper party: we made the starter, Perseverance the main course and Brindabella the dessert – and a great evening it was too.

We feel very fortunate to have fallen into such excellent company at the point when the weather turned against us all. We are still having a lot of fun despite the frustrations of not being able to make much progress.

Today there was much less wind than forecast, and we were left wondering whether we should have left (but having paid another night’s marina fees, we were very reluctant to sacrifice them.)

So we set off on what promised to be an enjoyable walk along the Sentier des Douaniers (Customs men’s footpath) which follows the spectacular coast. Going up and down cliffs and scrambling across the rocks on the many beautiful beaches makes coastal walking in these parts very good exercise.

Unfortunately, although the forecast wind was slow to materialise, the forecast rain duly arrived, and we soon found ourselves sheltering under a convenient balcony. We headed back to the boat when the torrential downpour slowed to a standard shower, and it looks like another afternoon indoors (the wind has got up too, making us feel better about not setting out this morning.)

We’re going out to a restaurant with Brindabella and Perseverance this evening before we make our farewells and all set off in different directions tomorrow morning ­–

weather permitting.

The stiff westerly breeze gave rather too much of a dead run for the passage along the coast inside the Sept Isles and then on past Treguier and Lezardrieux. So we “downwind tacked”, zig-zagging from one gybe to the other, to keep a safe point of sailing in what was still quite a big following sea.

In these conditions we don’t gybe, but wear round (“wheelbarrow turns”) as it puts less stress on all the gear, not to mention the crew.

The tide was against us, and our zig-zag course added lots of extra miles to the 48-mile route and meant slow progress, even though at times our boat speed was spectacular, surfing off the impressive waves. The breeze was getting up and eventually we had to reef the mainsail and roll away some of the jib.

The mid-day Shipping Forecast was a worry, too: more gales due, and the westerly wind, which is what we want for heading east towards home, threatens to turn easterly. We were glad we were not among the contingent who had set off with us from Trebeurden heading for Guernsey. With further to go, and further out at sea, they must have found that even more depressing than we did.

The worst of the seas were off the Ile de Brehat, the headland where we turned off the run and started to reach southwards towards St Quay, an altogether more comfortable and efficient point of sailing. At this point the second reef went in. By now the tide was turning in our favour, and the problem was no longer slow progress – quite the opposite.

Heading down the relatively narrow Chenal de Brehat requires careful navigation to stay clear of the rocks, and we were blasting along at ten knots over the ground. We rolled the headsail away altogether for the trickiest bottleneck, but it didn’t slow us very much.

The great consolation for a long and tiring day at sea was that the threatened rain stayed away. It was one of those trips which, had it been raining, would have been thoroughly miserable, but as it was mainly sunny was really enjoyable.

And the plus side of the zig-zag course was that at times we were much closer to the coast than we would have been if following the rhumb line, which made for better sightseeing. We had a chance, for example, to take a close look at the surreal natural sculptures of the pink granite cliffs at Ploumanac’h, rated the most spectacular of the wonderful rose granite coast – which we are sorry to be leaving behind.

For today marked yet another milestone, as we left the northern Brittany section of the Almanac, heading into “central north France.” But the holiday is not over yet. St Quay is another port we have never visited before. And with the weather forecast dictating another day ashore tomorrow, and probably the next day as well, we are looking forward to exploring it.

It was still blowing fairly hard at getting up time. By now the Met Office and Meteo France agreed: the forecast for the day was SW 5-7, and a glance out to sea showed plenty of white water.

The large contingent of homeward-bound Brits gathered around the notice board outside the capitainerie, where the latest forecast is displayed first thing, and agreed without exception that it was a good day for staying right where we were, and waiting for the wind – and the sea - to drop a bit more before leaving tomorrow.

But what to do with another day in port? We’d caught up with the chores yesterday. We thought about catching the bus to nearby Lannion for a change of scene. The harbour master kindly provided a bus timetable and a local map, with the bus stop marked by his own hand.

But when we looked more closely at the map, we decided we did not need to go to Lannion after all: there were lots of interesting things to do much closer at hand. Trebeurden, it turned out, had its own share of menhirs, cromlechs, dolmens etc to track down, not to mention a couple of promising-looking nature reserves and en enticing network of footpaths linking all the points of interest together.

The only snag was that the forecast promised squally showers, as well as strong wind, so we stuffed our waterproofs into a backpack, and off we set.

It was a really delightful walk, except for the ten minutes or so spent sheltering under a tree in one of the squally showers. Needless to say it struck when we were in the middle of nowhere in the open countryside, a long way from refuge in café or bar.

The nature reserve of the Marais de Quellen was the highlight of the outing. The only disappointment was that the Camargue white horses which live there were sheltering from the weather at the furthest point from the footpath, so we did not get a very close look at them.

In the evening we were invited for drinks on Perseverance with John and Aafke and also Simon and Fiona from Brindabella. We are planning to cruise in company (weather permitting) to St Quay Portrieux tomorrow.

It promised to be a fairly miserable day: grey and damp with lumpy seas. Which just goes to show how wrong expectations can be, because it turned into one of the most enjoyable sails of the summer.

The sun never quite managed to come out, but it tried hard, and the day warmed up. There was “precipitation within sight” but none of it ever reached us, and the fog mercifully stayed away.

And meanwhile we were surfing along on a relatively gentle Atlantic swell, under full sail, making swift progress downwind. It wouldn’t have been very enjoyable going the other way, but heading east in a stiff south-westerly has a lot to recommend it.

After all the motoring we did in the first half of the holiday, the last few days’ sailing has been a great treat. True, it’s come at the price of cloudy skies, but it’s a price we’re happy to pay.

This evening it was our turn to host the on-board drinks. Simon and Fiona came, along with Steve and Tina and son Jake from the Southampton-based boat we’d been rafted with in L’Aber Wrac’h.

I’d had a feeling I recognised Tina from somewhere, and when we got talking it turned out she had crewed on a friend’s Sigma 33 in the days we used to spend our holidays heading to the South Coast for Sigma regattas. Steve, too, had been a Sigma sailor. Small world.

By the time it returned, with a yacht about the same size as ours lashed alongside, we’d decided to stay put for the day. This wasn’t part of the plan, as we’d had a couple of days exploring L’Aber Wrac’h (and very nice it is too) on the way down, and our intention was to schedule shore days in ports as yet unvisited. But sometimes there’s no choice.

Some boats did go out – the forecast SW 5-7 was of course a good direction for heading back to Britain – but there was rain and fog in the forecast, and we didn’t fancy either. The decision seemed vindicated when one of those head-case Pogo 8.50s came in and its young, fit and inevitably single-handed skipper berthed nearby.

He explained that he’d been heading further along the coast, but the conditions were so vile, with lumpy seas and nil visibility, that he’d decided to stop. If it was too bad for him, we felt, we were taking the seamanlike, rather than the wimpy decision, by staying put!

Anyway we found plenty of chores to fill the day productively. We were invited for evening drinks on Brindabella, Simon and Fiona’s Naiad 405, which is the first fellow Suffolk Yacht Harbour boat we have “bumped into” this summer since saying farewell to the crews of Betelguese and Ariane in St Vaast. While we were enjoying their hospitality the lifeboat came in with yet another yacht alongside.

Richard and Simon went to help the SNSM crew berth the yacht on the outside of the wavebreak – and were a little disconcerted when they were thrown ropes and instructed to pull. For it seemed not only were they expected to pull in the Austrian-flagged yacht, but also the Harwich-sized all-weather lifeboat to which it was still firmly attached!

We have seen an awful lot of lifeboat action this summer. We don’t know what happened to today’s two yachts – they could have hit rocks, suffered gear failure, or maybe just run out of diesel. But seeing two rescues in a day, in relatively hostile weather, was a sobering reminder of the potential dangers of Brittany’s delightful, but decidedly rocky, cruising grounds.

Despite the threatening forecast, the day dawned sunny and calm. And along with more than a dozen boats, most of them English, a few Dutch and a few French from further up the coast, we headed towards the Chenal du Four.

The tides were as neapy as could be, which should take the sting out of this notorious stretch of water, renowned for kicking up dangerous and unpredictable seas in strong winds.

There was just a really nice sailing breeze as we reached across the Goulet de Brest. No sign yet of the threatened 5-7. It looked as if Meteo France knew more than the Met Office.

When we bore away northwards in the Chenal itself, with the tide underneath us, the apparent wind dropped to less than a knot, and we had to motor until we emerged at the Valbelle buoy and hardened up across the wind on the opposite gybe, heading round the corner and back into the Channel.

Again, it was just a nice sailing breeze. We were romping along under full sail, with a couple of knots of tide underneath us, the autopilot steering, the sun shining – and then out of nowhere came a really fierce gust which overpowered “George” and sent the boat shooting up to windward.

We only had two miles to go to reach the offing buoy for L’Aber Wrac’h, but we didn’t hesitate: the mainsail was swiftly reefed, and we were still charging along.

We were glad we’d already been into L’Aber Wrac’h on our journey south, because what seemed like a daunting entrance then was comfortingly familiar now, as the weather continued to worsen. We were soon heading up the river with sails stowed.

By the time we were safely moored in the visitors’ space on the inside of the marina wavebreak, the wind was rising steadily. Soon it was absolutely screaming. The Met Office had got it right after all.

Worryingly, the lunchtime Shipping Forecast is just more SW 5-7, no qualifying “later.” So we may be here for a while.

The important thing is that we have got round the corner. From now on, statistically the wind is likely to blow from the south-west, which is a good direction for getting us home, as our route from here onwards is largely north-east.

If push comes to shove, we could actually get home from here in bad weather, in about three long hops, heading for safe-in-all-states destinations. But we’re hoping it won’t come to that. There are still two or three places we have not yet been to that we hope to explore, and one or two old favourites that we’d like to take in before we get home.

In one sense we’re sad to be back in the Channel, in the closing stages of the summer’s adventure. But we’re glad to have made that target – albeit with only 20 minutes to spare. 

In fact we’re planning to go out for a meal ashore tonight, to celebrate the fact!

Owing to the current timing of the ideal tide to head north through the Chenal du Four (it seems everyone is on their way home now) the marina emptied early in the morning, and we left our mooring buoy and headed into the normally crowded harbour, able to please ourselves where we parked.

Then it was off to the supermarket for some overdue reprovisioning. We’re starting to think about what we want to take home with us, as well as what we’re going to need on the boat for the next few days.

It was yet another brilliant sunny day. We’re not sure whether we’ve been exceptionally lucky this summer, or whether Brittany is always like this. After lunch back on the boat, and suitably armed with bottles of water, we set off on foot to explore the stunning headlands of the Camaret peninsula, overlooking the wonderful natural harbour – surely one of the world’s best – with Brest at its head.

This has always been a key strategic site. The marina in Camaret is named Port Vauban after the Vauban fort which dominates the site. Not far up the steeply climbing footpath we came upon another Vauban edifice, and not much later a great deal of rather more modern German fortifications.

It was quite hard walking, going up steeply one minute and heading down the next, but the views were so stunning that we were disappointed to find the walk cut short before we got to La Louve, the headland we rounded the day before heading into Camaret.

It is topped with a semaphore (signal station), and no doubt other installations as well, and is therefore a military no-go area. Probably just as well as we were starting to get a bit tired, and despite all the water, a bit dehydrated, too, on an extremely hot afternoon.

Turning south, we discovered an absolutely stunning beach, crowded with people, many of them defying signs warning that swimming there was both dangerous and forbidden.

We walked down a steep cliff path and along the sand, and then back upwards again, to investigate the corner towers which are virtually all that remain of a ruined Gothic folly built by a renowned French poet early in the 20^th Century.

We’d seen the towers from sea level as we’d sailed past the day before, and speculated about their history and purpose. They were obviously too big and too regular in shape to be the standing stones we’ve come to expect almost everywhere we go in this region.

And lo and behold, as we turned our backs on the ruined folly and began to head downhill towards the town, what should we find in front of us but a field full of standing stones – a set of alignments contemporary with those at Carnac.

Altogether a most successful and enjoyable walk. And the weather stayed fine for a lovely evening in the cockpit, too. The only cloud on the horizon was that the teatime Shipping Forecast was the worst we have heard since leaving St Vaast two months ago.

It was promising SW 5-7 “later.” Would we have time to get through the Chenal du Four in the morning before the strong winds struck? The French forecast had nothing worse that a Force 5. Which should we believe?

We’re trying not to think about it as the end of the holiday. After all, we still have most of three weeks ahead of us, which is more than we used to have for our main summer  break, while we were working.

Anyway, we decided that Camaret, some 60-plus miles away, was today’s target. And the key to the passage plan was hitting the Raz de Sein tidal race at slack water – about 15.40, according to our calculations.

This demanded a prompt start, as there was 40-odd miles to cover to get there, and the course was largely upwind. So after a dash ashore for a baguette (breakfast and lunch sorted) we were under way by 07.30.

To start with we were beating against the tide, and it looked as if our chances of getting to the Raz in time were zero. In fact we made an alternative plan to go to Audierne instead. And it was drizzling, which did nothing for morale on board.

But then the westerly wind (forecast to be Force 4-5 all day) died away to nothing, so we were forced to start the engine (normally a matter of regret) and were able to motor in the direction we wanted to go, rather than tacking backwards and forwards.

This enabled us to clear a couple of headlands more quickly than expected, and when our course turned north of west, giving us a slant to sail in a straight line, the breeze obligingly returned, too. The GPS was now giving us an ETA at the Raz within minutes of our target.

Eight hours after leaving Port la Foret, there we were passing La Vielle lighthouse only ten minutes late. We knew we were there at the right time because we were part of a fleet of 20 or so yachts converging from different directions, aiming for the same tidal window.

It was still a grey day, and the drizzle came and went, along with the visibility. But the breeze held, and we were making excellent progress. We actually had to reef the main and roll in some of the jib, as the wind strengthened, but we were flying along, and didn’t mind.

We reached Camaret earlier than expected, and as we turned the headland into the sheltered bay, as if by magic the greyness of the day disappeared and it turned into another lovely sunny evening.

The harbour looked crowded, and as we intended to eat on board anyway, we decided to pick up a mooring buoy rather than joining the throng. We’ll go into the harbour tomorrow morning when a few boats have left, because we plan to stay for a day, having made such a successful long step homeward.

In the meantime, we’re enjoying watching the terns lined up on the fence of the fish-farm cage at the end of the moorings. Are they taking free samples? They are being mobbed by a couple of herons, which we think may have been specially trained by the fish farmer to discourage them. Or maybe the herons want all the free samples.

Richard thinks the terns are gathering to discuss their plans for their imminent journey back to Africa. It’s rather a sad thought.

It’s also a sad thought that today we moved from the South Brittany section of the Almanac into the North Brittany section. But there was another landmark to celebrate.

Today we passed the 1,000-mile mark for this summer’s adventure.

We would need a rising tide to get into Port la Foret, and high tide wasn’t until evening, so we could have stayed where we were until lunchtime, but after so much motoring to make fast enough passages, and with more light winds forecast, we decided to leave really early, with time to sail there at whatever speed we could make.

It was a great decision. It was a lovely sunny day (although the weather is starting to get distinctly cooler as summer slides towards autumn) with flat seas, and the northerly breeze giving a comfortable fetch for our slightly-north-of-west slant along the coast.

Boat speed varied between two and seven knots, as the breeze came and went, but we were always making progress. In fact, we were going rather too fast. It soon became clear that we were going to reach Port La Foret at dead low water.

Richard has moaned throughout the holiday about not having enough time to go fishing. In fact, he’s had a few tries, but caught nothing. So when the breeze finally died (sea breeze cancelling out land breeze in the mid-day sun) we rolled up the jib and drifted for a bit, while he got out the mackerel feathers.

Not much later he was reeling in three mackerel. “We need one more,” he said – cast again, and immediately had a full set of six, one on each feather! The three smallest were tossed straight back, and swam away, hopefully unharmed.

The other six were quickly cleaned and cooked. Going round Britain last year we actually got a bit tired of mackerel, but these, the first of the summer, were going to be a real treat: hot, with French bread and butter for lunch, then cold, with salad, for supper.  

There was clearly no point in doing any more fishing, and we were still way too early for the tide. So we decided to head for an afternoon anchorage off Beg Mail, about two miles south of Port la Foret. We were delighted to see our new friends John and Aafke’s Perseverance already there.

They came over in their dinghy for an early evening drink before we headed on up to Port la Foret on the tide. It was such a lovely evening that it was tempting to think about staying in the picturesque anchorage, but as we’d been sailing all day we weren’t sure there was enough juice left in the batteries.

(If we’d been intending to anchor for the night we’d have motored for a bit to top them up – or at least been more careful about how much power we were using. We’d both had fresh-air showers, and the water pump is one of the worst offenders in terms of power drain – along with the fridge and autopilot which had been running all day.)

By now the visitors’ pontoon in the marina was full, but we found a handy berth for the night on the multi-hull pontoon just outside – where we were able to plug in. We agreed it had been a really successful day’s cruising: a great sail, productive fishing, enjoyable socialising, two new and very attractive destinations, and good food, too.

Perhaps it’s the primeval hunter gatherer instinct, but somehow nothing else ever tastes quite as good as self-caught fish eaten at its freshest.

The Citadel was founded by Spanish invaders in the 1590s. It’s awe-inspiring to think you are looking at something that has stood the test of time for 500 years.

Of course the Citadel has been much altered and adapted through history. It was the French King Louis XIII who renamed the settlement Port Louis some 25 years later, when the Spanish occupiers left and Brittany became part of his kingdom.

Since then the buildings have undergone several changes of use, but today the fortifications still surround much of the town, and the citadel itself has become home to not one but four very interesting museums.

One is dedicated to the SNSM, the French equivalent of the RNLI. It is fascinating to note the close parallels between the two organisations, not just in terms of the equipment they have used down the years, from boat design to safety gear, but also their fund-raising methods. Both rely on volunteer crews.

There is another exhibition called Treasures from the Deep, which houses all kinds of things recovered from shipwrecks around the coast, most notably some exquisite Chinese porcelain. There was also a great film showing how the porcelain was recovered, using a submersible with remote-control suckers on its arms. It picked the fragile vases off the seabed, and dropped them into padded boxes for transfer to the surface.

There is a separate maritime museum, featuring ship models, navigational equipment, and so on, and in the powder room of the old fortress there is a display of more modern naval hardware, including anti-aircraft guns and torpedoes, as well as lots of cannon from earlier times.

But the best museum of all, in our opinion anyway, was the one tracing the history of the French East India Company (for which Lorient is named). This included some dazzling examples of the goods (most notably porcelain and textiles) which were traded from the Far East in those days.

Add to this a tour of the citadel ramparts, with great views across Lorient harbour, and out to sea towards the Isle de Groix, and it was quite a full morning.

By now the sky was looking distinctly threatening, and we were feeling quite hungry, so we wandered into town and decided to take a light lunch in the garden of a busy creperie. We were well protected under a sun awning, or so we thought. But when the heavens opened we readily accepted the suggestion of the waitress that we should move inside.

The rain showed no signs of stopping, so we ordered ice creams for dessert, to delay setting out into the downpour. Good move. The ices were fantastic, and by the time we’d finished them the rain had stopped.

This was the heaviest rain we’ve seen since leaving Levington. It seems we really are moving away from the sunny south and towards the more familiar unsettled weather patterns of the English Channel,

The sun came out again as we walked back to the boat. We drew up a rough framework of likely stopping places on the way home.  All sailing schedules are subject to daily revision, according to weather and other factors, but with some 700 miles to travel, we should be able to meet our target to be home three weeks from today.

In truth, he did say that during the afternoons, when there was just one acoustic band playing, some of the music had been absolutely beautiful. But every evening had descended into chaos and cacophony as two or three electric bands, all with everything turned up to 11, Spinal Tap-style, began competing within 100m of Brave’s city centre berth.

So we set off on foot up a back street, heading away from the harbour as fast as could, and were delighted to find an excellent Italian restaurant, playing real traditional Breton music at an entirely acceptable decibel level, and serving excellent seafood linguine.

We returned to the boat to find the battle of the bands still raging, beyond the pain threshold, and resolved to leave this morning. The harbour staff lived up to their billing as the most helpful ever, turning out in a RIB to pull our raft away from the pontoon, to enable us to escape without difficulty from the inside. Their good humour and efficiency is one completely positive thing we will take away from the Lorient experience.

We made the two-mile trip down the harbour to Port Louis under engine, merely flicking the fenders on to the deck. In fact the mileage didn’t even register, as after five days of inactivity in warm and shallow water, the log had ceased to function.

So no miles recorded, but we found ourselves a world away from the noise and bustle of Lorient. (Once again there are huge marks for the marina crew: we were met by a man in a RIB who not only directed us to a nice berth, but also tied up his RIB and waited on the finger to take our warps.)

Port Louis is a historic, walled town, complete with heavily fortified citadel, at the entrance to Lorient Harbour. With no through traffic (it is literally at the end of the road) it is amazingly quiet, even allowing for the fact that it is a tourist hotspot.

Richard pulled up the log transducer and found a fully-grown shrimp jamming the paddle-wheel. He (the shrimp) was evicted and returned to the deep. Hopefully he’ll survive the experience and with a bit of luck the log should be back in working order, too.

After a brief explore ashore, we decided we’d better stay another day to investigate further, this is such an attractive place. And to crown an enjoyable day, we were invited for drinks aboard a stunning X-yachts C45 (flying a white ensign.)

Thou shalt not covet, says the Bible, and when we bought Brave, I did not think I would look at another yacht with envious eyes ever again. But I have to confess that John and Aafke’s Perseverance, complete with generator, watermaker, deep freeze, and even built-in washing machine, not to mention electric winch for mainsail and dinghy handling, had me thinking distinctly disloyal thoughts.

We’d need to win the lottery, though.

We took the everyday bus from La Trinité to Carnac and then walked the short remaining distance to the most important prehistoric site in Europe. The alignments, comprising more than 2,500 menhirs, as standing stones are known in French, stretch for more than 4 km.

Dating back to 5,700 BC, the site long predates Stonehenge, not to mention the pyramids of Egypt and the great Egyptian temples at Karnak (the similarity of the name is surely no coincidence?)

As well as the alignments of menhirs (obviously somewhat plundered down the millennia, as various stones have been recycled for local building projects etc), there are cromlechs (circles) and dolmens (groups of stones roofed with slabs across the top, believed to be burial chambers) and tumuli (grave mounds).

We didn’t see all of them, or anything like. To do so would take a week, rather than a day. But we did see a lot more stones than all those we saw in numerous world-renowned sites put together during our Round Britain trip last year.

In fact it was raining when we woke up, which reminded us of our storm-lashed visit to the Ring of Brodgar on Orkney, but by the time we were in Carnac the day had brightened up no end, and our only weather-related problem was the heat of the sun.

This was treated with a refreshing cider stop at a conveniently sited hostelry in an old farmstead in the middle of nowhere – but right in the path of the alignment – at about the half-way point of the walk.

We returned to the boat to find that the Dufour 40 which had been alongside us had gone, so we were unable to return their hospitality, as intended. But astonishingly, since they are such a comparatively rare breed, another Grand Soleil 40 came to take her place.

Even more astonishingly, this was the Luxembourg-flagged Audacious (another name coincidence) that we had found ourselves on the next mooring to in New Grimsby Sound, Scilly, during last summer’s adventure. We did not actually get to meet then, but this time we greeted each other as old friends.

Far from sadness at leaving this renowned cruising honeypot, we felt a great sense of relief when we swept out of the Gulf and into the open sea, passing Port Navalo with a couple of knots of ebb underneath us.

It turned out we chose the right moment to leave Vannes before it too became hopelessly overcrowded. Entry and exit for yachts is dictated by a swing bridge which opens every half hour during the five hours or so the lock is open around high water.

We did not think there would be enough depth in the lock for the first bridge opening, and timed our departure for the one an hour and a half before high water – which should allow us to get most of the way out of the Gulf at more or less slack water.

When we rounded the slight bend in the harbour approach where the bridge comes into view, it was apparent that it was still open from the previous half hour, and there was a seemingly endless string of boats streaming (necessarily slowly) up the very narrow channel towards us.

We were glad we had left when we did because once all these boats arrived in the harbour, the visitors’ pontoons would be rafted all the way across the harbour. But after that prolonged opening, the bridge keeper understandably shut the bridge just before we (and the other half dozen boats that had left with us) reached it, cancelled “our” opening altogether, and kept us waiting for another half hour.

By the time the bridge did open, there was once again quite a crowd waiting to get in, rather more than the number waiting to get out. We wondered if we would have enjoyed Vannes quite so much if we had been there in that much of a throng.

There was a useful sailing breeze, but as our course was dead upwind, and we had limited room for manoeuvre, especially in the shallow upper reaches of the Gulf, we elected to motor for a while, rather than attempt tacking through such narrow and crowded waters.

Once out in the Gulf proper, and aware of the scale of the crowds, we opted to continue motoring, as the safest means of collision avoidance. There were moments when it almost wasn’t enough. We turned to give way to a boat sailing across our bow, and a very fast motorboat, determined not to deviate from his own straight line course, dived through the gap between us.

A bit later we watched a traditional sailing boat blithely barge into two anchored small fishing boats. We were glad to escape these hideously overcrowded waters unscathed.

We had not been there long before a Dufour 40 came along and rafted beside us. To our delighted surprise the French family aboard immediately invited us across for a glass of wine. It turned out that we had a great deal in common, both using our boats for a combination of racing and cruising.

After a day when we’d begun to doubt the wisdom of the cruising lifestyle (since we do, of course, recognise that we are ourselves part of the over-crowding problem) it was a very pleasant interlude which helped to restore our faith!

We woke to overcast skies, an unaccustomed chill in the air, and, for the first time in the eight weeks the boat’s been in France, a Force 6 in the forecast. We weren’t unduly concerned about the weather, as our plan was to head into Vannes, where we would have perfect shelter in the locked-in harbour in the city centre. But first we had to get there…

As it was such a short journey, it was hardly worth the effort of putting up sails, and in any case, after a night on a mooring, we needed to charge the batteries, so despite the freshening breeze, it was yet another motor-boating day.

We put on fleeces, long trousers, socks and shoes, instead of the now-normal shorts, t-shirts and sandals, and off we set. Within minutes waterproofs were added to the ensemble, as curtains of rain closed down the visibility.

Fortunately that didn’t last long, and soon the delightful and interesting scenery was back on view, as we threaded our way through an increasingly shallow and narrowing channel towards the head of the gulf.

We draw 2.15m, probably 2.2 in the current fully-laden state of the boat, and the final part of the channel is dredged to rather less than that. With the rise of the tide, we knew there should be enough water, but not a lot to spare.

A couple of times boats coming the other way, with the “take no prisoners” attitude a lot of French sailors seem to apply to the Collision Regulations, forced us dangerously near to the mud (we certainly hope it was mud, not rocks!)

There was an extremely narrow swing bridge to negotiate, and then a lock gate – fortunately one of the easy ones that stay open for the duration of high water. While waiting for the bridge to open we were met and welcomed by a helpful berthing master in a RIB, who gave us our parking instructions, and was also able to reassure us that there would be enough depth in the lock.

We still held our breath a bit, for that was pretty narrow, too. But then we rounded a bend and there was the city centre before us. I was delighted to see a boat called Jonathan Livingston already moored on the visitors’ pontoon.

Her owner, Richard Idiens, seems like an old friend because he was one of the most active members of TheMainSail forum, when I was editing the website, and has since stayed in touch through www.sailers.co.uk.

Last year, when we were sailing round Britain and Ireland, so was he, but sadly our paths never quite crossed. This year we have both been exploring Brittany, and it had begun to seem that we were fated to miss each other again.

As it was, it turned into a really sociable afternoon, because Keith and Betty, from Rose Tyler, a Tollesbury-based yacht we have crossed tracks with on several occasions during the summer, came on board for a glass of wine. No sooner was it poured than Richard came along and introduced himself – and was of course welcomed aboard and handed a glass.

By then, the day had improved beyond all expectations. The sun was out again and we were all back in our shorts and T-shirts.

After everyone left, we set off for a brief exploration ashore. Vannes has a fascinating medieval centre, with some of its original walls and gates surrounding half-timbered buildings that seem to be leaning on each other – in some cases apparently defying gravity. We’ve decided to stay another day so we have time to explore more thoroughly.

In the evening we met Richard again and went for a meal together at the excellent restaurant occupying the top floor of the striking modern building which also houses the Capitainerie, its terrace overlooking our boat, moored right outside.

Between last year’s adventures and this summer’s, we had no shortage of things to talk about. Now he really is an old friend.

By the time the dinghy was pumped up and we were ready to go ashore, it was once again hot and sunny, and we put drinking water, sunhats etc in the backpack, along with walking shoes and swimming cozzies.

Houat (apparently it means “duck” in Breton) is about five kilometres long and less than half that wide. It boasts striking pink granite cliffs right round its shoreline, but is otherwise, in essence, a gigantic sand-dune, protected as the French equivalent of an SSSI.

Visitors are requested to respect the delicate ecology and stick to the marked paths to avoid causing erosion of the sand or damage to the island’s remarkable wealth of wildflowers (or the large numbers of butterflies, lizards etc) but the restriction is no hardship, as there are so many enticing paths to choose from.

We walked up to the town of Houat and its drying port of St Gildas. The town is almost too picturesque to be true, all the better for being virtually traffic free. Then the walk along the coast path (bicycles and horses both banned, to protect the dunes) was even better, with all kinds of wild flowers to admire.

It was low tide so we made part of the tour along the shoreline, where huge populations of mussels were clinging to the exposed rocks. Clearly they had been well picked over by previous visitors - and all the harvestable oysters had been removed. But given a suitable container (which sadly we didn’t have) and a bit of patience, it would have been perfectly possible to gather a mussel feast for supper.

The beach also had an astonishing wealth of seashells, including large razor clams and cockles of all shapes and sizes, testifying to the healthy conditions for sea food in all its forms in these parts.

We took a quick dip before returning to the boat, but found the water rather cool and didn’t linger long. As we approached the boat in the dinghy Richard decided he couldn’t live with the grubby waterline any longer. But he put his wetsuit on before he went back in to swim round and sponge it clean.

We were advised we ought to visit Houat, a small island about ten miles south of the Gulf of Morbihan, where it is possible to anchor off “one of the most beautiful beaches in Southern Brittany.”

The snag is that Treach er Gourhed, as the beach is named, is clearly marked on the chart as being within a no anchoring area, because of the cables connecting the island with the mainland. Bizarrely, though, there is also an anchorage marked on the chart there.

Similarly, the Almanac says “no anchoring,” but gives directions to the delightful bay. And the pilot book gives more detailed directions, plus a photo of the bay packed with yachts at anchor.

Thoroughly confused by all these conflicting instructions, we decided to go and have a look. If we decided it was a no-go area, we could always divert to the mammoth marina at Crouesty, a few miles away on the mainland. We had all day, and it wasn’t very far, anyway.

We started off with the usual motoring in no wind scenario, escaping Pornichet while the race committee were still laying the marks for the finals of the match racing championship. The dedicated international teams were already out on the water, practising manoeuvres.

But about half way to our destination, the breeze filled in nicely, the engine was silenced, and we were sailing. We could lay the course to Houat comfortably, on a fast close fetch in flat water and sunshine – cruising as it ought to be. It seemed like a sign.

We passed close to the smaller island of Hoedic, and sure enough its sheltered bays were full to bursting with anchored yachts. We were not surprised to discover that Treach er Gourhed, when we reached it, was even more of a parking lot.

With the cables marked on the chart plotter, it was easy enough to find a space well clear of them. We counted 90 boats already anchored in the bay, and decided there was safety in numbers. We dropped the hook.

If that sounds unduly crowded, bear in mind that the bay, perfectly sheltered from the prevailing north-westerly wind, is nearly two miles wide. We had all the space we needed to put out as much chain as we wanted to.

We arrived soon after lunchtime on a sunny Saturday, and were not surprised that a number of boats left during the afternoon: they’d enjoyed their mid-day barbecue/swim and were, presumably, heading back to their respective marinas.

What did surprise us though, was that as the day went on (while we sat in the sun playing Scrabble and listening to Test Match Special) more and more boats came pouring in to spend the night on this idyllic anchorage. By the time it went dark we could count more than 150 boats – and there were still more nav lights approaching.

We couldn’t blame them for wanting to be here. It’s such a special spot that we have decided to stay for another day and go exploring ashore tomorrow. We’re really glad we listened to the people who said “do go there” and ignored the “don’ts.”

They have literally been turned into a tourist attraction, some of the vast space converted into a re-creation of life on the great French ocean liners France and Normandie. There’s also a 1950s submarine, open for visiting, moored in the fortified lock, and there’s a museum on the site, too.

There are other tourist attractions nearby: you can visit the shipyards, the working port, and even the nearby Airbus factory (once you’ve been identity checked.) But no doubt for most visitors it is the submarine pens themselves that are the main, if rather macabre, attraction.

We thought we had seen a lot of Nazi concrete along the Dutch coast, around Calais, and particularly in the Channel Islands, but none of it had prepared us for the sheer scale of the submarine base – with pens to accommodate at least a dozen U-boats, and that fortified lock to make sure that the base couldn’t be crippled by a single bomb.

The concrete walls are probably five feet thick, and equipped with massive steel doors. It’s sobering to think what the U-boat force actually represented – and also that this vast edifice was no doubt built using what was effectively slave labour.

The bit of the visit we enjoyed most was the panoramic view from the roof of the fortified lock, which gave stunning views of the elegant bridge, and also the working docks beyond the old submarine basin (which is now used by visiting yachts).

There was a particularly boxy moored ship, which is used to transport the fuselage sections of the gigantic Airbus A380 to wherever they go to meet its British-built wings and engines and all the other components.

In need of a beer after all this tourism, we wandered into a bar where we picked up the local paper on the counter – and were shocked to discover that the front page story was about the sinking of a fishing boat and the drowning of its skipper, between Noirmoutier and Pornichet, only the day before.

We had actually seen the lifeboat leave the harbour on this “shout.” We did not realise that it had returned with one survivor and one body. Their fishing boat had hit rocks, in fine weather, and had “sunk within seconds” while the skipper was in the cabin radioing for help. Tragically he was unable to escape, and died. Fortunately his companion was safely rescued by the lifeboat.

This means that twice within four days we have been aware of boats sinking, having hit rocks, within a handful of miles of where we have been moored. In each case the accidents happened in fine weather, to experienced local skippers.

It really brings home the potential dangers of sailing on these rock-strewn coasts. Though we try to tell ourselves that deep-draft yachts, keeping determinedly clear of all the charted dangers, are probably less at risk than fishing boats, which tend to prefer flirting with shallows and wrecks because that is where the best catches are liable to be found.

In any case, we left St Nazaire thinking about the drowned fishing boat skipper, as well as all the victims of the U-boats whose deserted home (so indestructibly built that it is likely to be an ever-lasting memorial) had made such an impression on us.

It was a relief to return to the sea wall at Pornichet in time to watch the final round-robin starting sequence of the match racing championships. Tomorrow the top boats will fight out the final rounds for the title, but we won’t be here to watch.

We plan to be on our way to the picturesque anchorage off the Ile d’Houat for some peace and quiet, which should make a refreshing change after three (enjoyable) nights in large and crowded marinas.

But this evening we made the most of marina-life and went ashore for excellent moules and frites at one of the quayside restaurants. There was one of the most spectacular sunsets we can remember, as we walked back along the sea wall to the boat.

And as we were making another short voyage – 16 miles or so – we were doomed once again to spend it motoring in no wind, knowing that, shortly after we reached our destination, the wind would fill in nicely. Even worse, we were motoring along in cloud – fairly sure that the sun would come out after lunch.

No matter, really. Crossing the entrance to the Loire was interesting – the bridge is spectacular. We are planning to stay in Pornichet for a day so that we can take the bus to St Nazaire and have a tourist day in this historic port. You can visit by yacht, but the mooring facilities don’t seem particularly attractive.

Pornichet is a relatively new and completely man-made marina, built out in deep water and connected to the town by a bridge alongside the old drying harbour. It is at the eastern end of the Bay of Pouliguen, which is well-protected by an offshore reef, and contains the huge and well-known seaside resort of La Baule.

Once safely moored, we set off to explore and found that the French national match racing championships were taking place in the bay – just on the other side of the marina breakwater, in fact.

So once we were safely moored we spent a happy couple of hours sitting on the pier, watching the action. The competitors were sailing J80s over a very short windward/leeward course, closely supervised by numerous umpires in high speed RIBs. The starts in particular provided some good (and bad) examples of close-quarters manoeuvring.

The racing got ever more exciting as the see breeze built during the afternoon. I found that, much as I love racing, I had no ambition to be among the hard-working crews – but I rather fancied the idea of being an umpire, dashing about in a RIB, blowing a whistle and waving the penalty flags!

We stayed on the mooring at Bois de la Chaise until after lunch, because Pornic can only be approached within three hours of high tide by our boat. And it was a very short crossing: just seven miles or so. So, in no hurry, we merely unrolled the jib and sailed very gently across the bay as the sea breeze filled in during the afternoon.

Pornic, as the pilot book testifies, is stunningly pretty. From the huge modern marina you follow a delightful path around the edge of the cliff and along the perimeter of the inner harbour to reach the centre of the town. It is a traditional drying harbour, but as it was high tide, it was full of water and highly picturesque.

It is guarded by an 11^th Century castle – apparently founded by “Bluebeard” Gilles de Rais. We enjoyed the walk into town, and took the opportunity to do some shopping and reprovision for supper on board. Tomorrow we are heading on to the very similar-named Pornichet, about 16 miles away on the other side of the Loire Estuary.

This is not only as the boundary between South Brittany and South Biscay but also effectively the boundary between the north and south of France. Guidebooks point out that to the north of the Loire buildings traditionally have grey slate roofs and to the south those Mediterranean-looking red terracotta tiles.

Pornic is already showing a transition between the two, with both types of roof well in evidence in the tiers of buildings tumbling down the cliffs towards the waterside.

As soon as we cleared the piers and turned east towards the anchorage, the sun disappeared. The pilot book warns that visibility can be a problem at times along this coast in the summer, and it is not joking. Very soon we were enveloped in a thick blanket of fog.

Thank heavens for the chart plotter, because we were picking our way through narrow channels between drying rocks, and there was absolutely no chance of using the helpful clearance bearings set out in the pilot book.

Visibility was down to a third of a mile – that was the distance at which we were able to pick up the two buoys we needed to guide us. And it was eerie, heading into the completely unknown without any visual clues at all.

We were forewarned that this “popular anchorage” was well-stocked with mooring buoys, but even when we picked up the safe water mark at its entrance, we could see absolutely nothing ahead. Then suddenly a moored yacht loomed out of the mist, and then equally suddenly dozens more. From being as alone as the Ancient Mariner, we were instantly in Piccadilly Circus.

There was a vacant buoy just ahead of us, so we grabbed it. It seemed the safest thing to do. We still couldn’t really make out the shore – little more than a quarter of a mile away.

But by the time we’d had some breakfast, the sun had burned off the fog and we found Bois de la Chaise just as picturesque as promised. From our visit to the museum the day before, we knew that this beautiful place was one of the first in France to pioneer sea bathing in the 19^th Century.

It’s easy to see why it proved such a magnet. It still looks a bit frozen in time, with some very expensive holiday homes (mini chateaux really) peeping out of the pine wood which reaches down to the three fine beaches, each lined with a row of pristine white beach huts, and separated by imposing rocky outcrops, one topped by a lighthouse.

There’s a busy sailing school based on the sand, and for most of the day we enjoyed the cabaret provided by the strings of dinghies to suit varying ages/abilities, from Oppies for the toddlers to high-speed Hobies for the teenagers, sailing around us and out in the bay.

There were some spectacular capsizes as the sea breeze filled in during the afternoon. The beginners’ windsurfing group were having a particularly hard time.

Our enjoyment was a bit tarnished in the evening, when two of the intermediate catamarans decided to indulge in an over-excited luffing match on their final run back to the shore, and managed to luff each other into the side of our boat!

Apart from that, we’ve had a delightful day in the sunshine. And we plan to spend another morning lotus-eating here tomorrow, before making another epic cruise (eight miles or so) across the Bay of Bourgneuf to Pornic.

We’re increasingly glad we decided not to blast on to Spain, and so have given ourselves time to explore/enjoy these wonderful cruising grounds at leisure.

We walked up from the marina towards the town, and found a busy quayside market already in full swing. The stalls selling cheese, fish and other local produce looked particularly enticing, but we guessed the market would have gone before we returned, and we didn’t want to be carrying perishables around in the sun all day, so we didn’t stop to buy anything.

We set off to find a bus stop, and were gratified to discover that the transport into Noirmoutier-en-l’Ile, the island’s main town, about five miles away, was a “Gratibus” – free!

So having consulted the timetable, and discovered we had half an hour to wait, we wandered down to the beach, and watched people indulging in the local pastime of peche a pied – in other words wandering around among the exposed rocks at low tide, gathering winkles and mussels for supper.

The bus ride was interesting in itself, giving us a view of the endless flat marais – now all saltpans and oyster beds – that make up the centre of the island. And then we arrived in the town, where we found ourselves surrounded by throngs of people on a scale we have not seen since leaving Ipswich!

To escape the madding crowd, we wandered down to the drying harbour – very dry as it was low water, with boats in all states of repair, from a state-of-the-art Dragon, to rotting hulks, nestling in the acres of exposed mud. There were more salt pans here, too.

After a refreshing drink at a quayside bar with vital shady awnings, we headed back into town, where we took a tour of the chateau/museum for the required dose of culture. This thick-walled 12^th Century edifice also had the benefit of being blissfully cool.

The museum exhibits were quite interesting, but by far the best bit of the tour was the panoramic view from the very top of the five-storey castle keep. On such a clear, sunny day you can literally see the whole of the island spread out beneath you: a good way of catching the flavour of the place without the effort of cycling all the way round it!

We treated ourselves to a much-needed cooling ice cream before catching the bus back to the harbour.

The day did not start too well. It was grey and wet when we left Les Sables, once again motoring in no wind, and before long the visibility was so bad that the radar went on, for the first time in the six weeks since leaving Levington.

But we could see the sky ahead gradually getting lighter, while behind us it got ever darker, and we were confident the day would eventually improve.

We had a really nasty scare when we nearly ran over a polypropylene rope, floating just below the surface between two innocuous-looking fishing marks, a couple of hundred metres apart. Richard just had time to knock the engine out of gear, and spin the boat, missing the rope literally by inches. We both went cold thinking about what would have happened had we failed to spot it. A wrecked gearbox and a premature end to the summer cruise…..

But our moods lightened again as the sun came out, and by the time we reached l’Herbaudiere, with its fairly challenging rock-strewn entrance, it was turning into another beautiful evening.

We were a bit miffed when the inshore lifeboat shot past us heading out to sea at more or less full chat, its wake flinging the boat against the pontoon with a mighty bang. A less robustly built yacht might have lost a mooring cleat or two, such was the force of the blow. But our ill-feeling evaporated when we realised the lifeboat really was on a “shout.”

It returned a little later with a nearly-submerged Merry Fisher-type day boat under tow. A major crowd gathered along the railings around the slipway to watch the crew’s efforts to salvage the craft.

A distraught man who was apparently the boat’s owner was much involved, so the crew had been rescued all right, but the boat was in a sorry state, hanging submerged apart from its bow roller behind the SNS RIB.

Two divers went into the water and attached airbags, and the coach roof gradually appeared, but it was clear the boat was full of water that was coming in from below as fast as the energetic divers tried to bail it from above.

The tide was falling, and the boat, still well awash, was beached on the slipway, where at worst it would have been left high and dry. But the race was on to get it – somehow – on to a trailer before the water disappeared.

It took a long and difficult struggle, with lots of people offering conflicting advice/opinions/instructions, but at long last it was achieved. And the two divers gave a convincing display of the old adage about the most effective bilge pump being a desperate man with a bucket.

As the boat appeared from the water it was obviously holed beneath the waterline and looked as if it had also rolled over on to the rocks, damaging both cockpit coaming and coach roof. As the laden trailer was finally pulled clear of the water, there was a spontaneous outbreak of applause from the watching crowd.

We were particularly impressed by the two divers, who worked so hard, but retained a sense of humour throughout (at one stage engaging in water fight with their bailing buckets).

It can’t have been much fun swimming in the oil slick spreading from the wrecked outboard motor. Feeling very sorry for the man whose day’s fishing had come to such an unfortunate (not to mention expensive) end, we went back to enjoy the last of the evening’s sunshine in our own cockpit.

All our moaning about this morning’s rain had been put properly into perspective!

We set off on what should have been an easy morning’s sail to Port Bourgenay, about seven miles east of Les Sables - only 27 miles NW of our mooring.

But it was dead upwind. The shipping forecast only had a five in it. Meteo France was promising NW 5-6 “for a time.” It proved to be quite a long time!

After so long moaning about not having enough wind to sail, it seemed churlish to complain about the direction of what was to start with a really nice sailing breeze, and warm, to boot.

Who cares about having to beat, when you’re wearing shorts and T-shirts, and the scenery – tacking between the mainland on one side, and the Ile de Re on the other – is so interesting?

But the tide was against us (it really doesn’t do what the tidal atlas in the Almanac predicts here). And the wind kept on building. And so did the sea. Soon a reef went in. Then a wave went over the length of the boat and soaked us both, and the waterproofs went on (too late as usual).

By now we realised that Port Bourgenay was no longer an option. Both pilot book and Almanac warn that the entrance is dangerous in the seas that break inshore during strong winds from the west.

It is a man-made marina, with an entrance very like that at Brighton, and having scared ourselves silly once going into Brighton in strong winds from the west, we weren’t remotely tempted to repeat the experience. So even though it meant another two hours (at least) of beating into the still-building seas, we took the Almanac’s advice to “divert to Les Sables.”

The planned 27-mile squirt had transformed itself into a 45-mile plus endurance test. But in such conditions, there is something to be said for a familiar landfall. Having been to Les Sables a couple of weeks ago, we were fairly confident that the sea would flatten out in the bay off the entrance, and so it proved.

We stopped on the arrival pontoon at 1700 BST, and were re-moored in our allotted berth just in time to pour a glass of wine and listen to the Shipping Forecast. Fortunately it was promising a return to lighter winds and building pressure.

The real problem with upwind passages is that they make life aboard so difficult. We hadn’t really had very much to eat all day (half a packet of Café Noir biscuits for breakfast and lunch combined) as the combination of high angles of heel, and the boat leaping off two-metre waves, made life nigh-impossible for the galley slave.

So as it was by now supper time, and the quayside restaurants, only a few metres away, were rapidly filling up, we decided to treat ourselves to a meal ashore. Cap Ouest provided excellent assiette de fruits de mer starters and moules maison (with Pineau de Charentes and crème fraiche as well as perfect frites) and a very reasonable (in both price and taste senses) bottle of Vendee wine.

The other excellent result of the day was that the clunk seems to have vanished from the steering. It got a pretty thorough test!

The beauty of our decision to start heading north is that it allows us the luxury of time to do such things.

We spent the afternoon basking in the sunshine, and re-reading pilot book, Almanac etc, choosing new destinations for our rescheduled cruise. Supper was an excellent jar of Mr Gosselin’s fish soup, brought all the way from St Vaast, followed by chicken salad.

And we celebrated our second night on a free mooring, after paying quite a lot in marina fees since leaving home….

We realised that we were in danger of turning the summer, meant to be an extended holiday, into more of a marathon endurance test. We’d have only a couple of weeks to “do” northern Spain, and then little more a month to get home, which given a spell of bad weather (which is almost bound to happen) would be barely enough, and certainly leave little enough time for exploring all the places on the Brittany coast we have yet to visit.

Wouldn’t it be better to save Spain for another year, and devote the remaining time to a more thorough and relaxed exploration of the Atlantic coast of France? Maybe we’re getting old. Maybe we’re just getting more sensible. But in the event (and with a less than appetising forecast for setting out across Southern Biscay) that is the option we chose.

We’ve enjoyed Brittany and South Biscay so much so far that we are really looking forward to having more time to spend in the places we missed out during our progress south.

So we left Royan (not without a few regrets) a couple of hours before high water, as already planned. In a westerly wind, which we had, it makes sense to leave the Gironde approaches on an incoming tide, even though progress is rather slow, to avoid the nasty wind-over-tide-and-swell sea that can develop once the ferocious ebb starts running.

More by accident than design, we were leaving at the top (bottom?) of neaps, so the tide wasn’t as bad as feared, and we made not-too-slow progress towards the Pointe de la Coubre, motoring dead upwind with the mainsail firmly stowed.

We hoisted it once we left the estuary and turned north and off the wind, but there wasn’t quite enough breeze to give us the rate of progress we needed for the 50-plus miles trip to our chosen anchorage for the night.

We retraced our steps from our passage down the outside of the Ile d’Oleron to Royan, more or less following the track on the GPS. It was a decidedly grey day, the first we have encountered since our trip across the Thames Estuary right at the beginning of the holiday.

We were actually wearing (thin) fleeces because for the first time in as long as we could remember, shorts and T-shirts weren’t enough. But the consolation was that the sky ahead looked brighter than the sky behind.

It really looked as if we had made the right decision to turn north instead of south – especially when we saw three warplanes heading for the Les Landes live-firing range, which we would have had to detour round, on our way to Spain.

At long last, around 16.15, the wind finally filled in, the engine was silenced, and we were sailing on a fast reach towards the northern tip of Oleron, making far better progress under sail than we do under engine. And then the sun came out.

Our destination was the anchorage marked on the chart off Rivedoux Plage on the SE corner of the Ile de Re, just south of the Orwell Bridge-like structure than connects Re to the mainland.

When we reached it, we discovered that, like so many other traditional anchorages, it has been filled with mooring buoys. No matter. We picked up a buoy in time to enjoy the last of the evening sunshine.

Supper was the lasagne we had planned to eat en route to Spain. It tasted just as good (or even better) stationary. The anchorage/mooring is nicely sheltered from the Atlantic swell: the small residual waves were just enough to rock us gently to sleep….