I didn’t really do geography at school. I went to a large comprehensive called Olchfa, one of the biggest schools in Wales at the time, if not the UK. It was a showcase school for facilities: extensive playing fields, swimming pool, gym, science labs galore, language labs, sewing and cooking rooms for girls, woodwork and metal work rooms for boys (sigh) and so on. But in 1974, the roof collapsed on the swimming pool at the John Cass school in Stepney, and launched the public awareness of buildings that had been constructed with high alumina cement (HAC). This type of cement was perfectly safe if used properly, but if not, then it could “rot” over time, with the obvious consequences. For those of you who are interested, this had been recognised as early as 1963, but it took a disaster such as this to trigger actions. Sound familiar?
So it was, that at the end of my first year (year 7, I believe in new-speak), I moved to a different set of buildings, that had had to be re-opened to accommodate the second and third-years (year 8 and 9). Glanmor Grammar School for Girls had the advantage of being five minutes’ walk from our house, but the obvious disadvantage is that we lost all facilities as well. This included some of the decent teachers, and, in my view, decent geography books. I can still remember having to learn facts and figures from a book about cocoa production in the Congo, or whatever it’s called these days.
This is all leading up to us coming to Calgary. I kept saying to Richard “When we are in Calgary…”, and he would reply patiently, “It’s Cagliari, darling”. I have now learned to say “Cagliari”, but what is more embarrassing is that I have been here before. After my darling mother died in 2018, my sister and her husband wanted to take my father on a holiday, and I offered to go as well to help out. We booked a Mediterranean cruise, which called in Cagliari. Sadly, dad didn’t get to make it either but us pesky kids still went.
Anyway, back to MB…
After four nights at anchor, I wanted an overnight in a marina. We also needed an oil change, so we headed down to the large and busy port of Olbia, and we managed to book the oil change after an afternoon of emails and phone calls on the hoof. The approach into the marina is quite interesting, you are warned about it being busy, and leaving room for big ships; Ha, it’s nothing when compared with negotiating the Solent. But there are extensive mussel beds either side of the channel. Richard remarked, rather ghoulishly, that the myriad of buoys made them look rather like a floating graveyard.
The marinas at Olbia are equally extensive, and we found ourselves having to do a sharp left by the ferry terminal to get into our area. We radioed in on VHF Channel 9 that we had arrived, and almost immediately, a RIB turned up at breakneck speed with a couple of cool guys. They didn’t say a word or acknowledge us, but we assumed they were our mini pilot guide, and dutifully followed them into the marina. The quickly helped us with our lines in record time, and vanished as quickly as they had arrived with barely a murmur.
Safely in our berth, we set off to explore. That didn’t take too long as we were miles from anywhere (except for a great bar and bistro), but the marina’s free shuttle kindly took us down town to a chandler, and even waited for us while we made our purchases. Our driver was chatty, and told us that he used to work on the mainland as a waiter and barman, but the pandemic had closed down his bar, and he was forced to return to live with his parents on the island. Richard asked him if Catalan was spoken here, but he said not, but that each area of Sardinia has a different dialect.
We had a lovely dinner at the great marina bar and bistro, and got the oil change done successfully the next morning. The engineer Nando spoke no English, but the lovely Maria helped with important translations. There was a large supermarket within ten minutes’ walk, so we trotted off to get a few basics. As you may know, I have been on at Richard that we should have a wheeled shopping trolley! We found one that he liked [Ed, ‘tolerated’] at the shopping centre. I persuaded him it would be useful to carry his beers in, and we have since also used it for the laundry. Hoorah. By the way, back at the boat, the German guy next door wanted to know where we’d got the trolley, and offered to buy it!!
Our next night was at the marina in La Caletta. It’s nothing special, but it provided us with a safe berth overnight. It was pricey as well, more expensive than some of the others.
Leaving the harbour the next morning, we had no speed showing. This is usually caused by seaweed or other detritus wrapped around the little plastic impeller that sticks out through the hull into the water. Richard to hoist a floorboard, take out the impeller [Ed, causing seawater to rush into the boat, before a bung is stuffed in the hole to replace the impeller temporarily] and clean it off. [Ed, it is normally covered in calcareous gunk here, and needs bicarb, vinegar and a scrape from my trusty Leatherman]
We were soon headed into the lovely port of Santa Maria Navarrese for two nights. [Ed, it has great beaches, backed by and parasol pines.] An ancient legend links the name of this place with a Spanish princess who fled from her father, the king of Navarre, and who found refuge in a storm. Apparently, some of the olive trees in the church piazza are the same age as the church; over 1,000 years old.
Now, I know that many of you think we are on holiday, but we did a trip to the laundry (and sorry, but there was a German woman hogging BOTH washers and the dryer), cleaned both heads (bathrooms), de-frosted and cleaned the fridge, and cleaned our fenders (that last one was R only I have to admit). We then walked over to the nearby beach and spent the rest of the day happily snoozing and reading in the shade, and bobbing in the sea.
Arriving into Calgary…
All the marinas where we have berthed in Sardinia use the same mooring technique of “lazy lines”. Typically, Med mooring in Greece involves tying ropes to the stern of the boat, dropping your anchor a few boat lengths out from the quay, and then reversing up to the quay, hoping there will be someone to catch your stern lines and loop them around a cleat, and then throw them back to you. The lines and anchor hold the boat steady in the berth.
Well, in Sardinia, instead of having to drop your anchor, there are lines attached to concrete blocks on the sea bed in the marina, and which get passed up to you by the marina guys. You tie these lazy lines on to the bow of the boat, thus replacing the need for dropping the anchor.
Therefore, coming into Cagliari, we prepared the boat (fenders, lines etc) for lazy line mooring. And of course, it wasn’t. We actually had to come alongside a small, narrow finger pontoon, which means fenders had to be lowered, and one stern line moved up to the bow or midships. Not really a problem, but you only find this out when you are in a really tight space. R does a great job of keeping the boat safe, while I make the changes, and of manoeuvring the boat through ninety degrees in just over its own length [Ed, thank heavens we chose to have bow thrusters]. One of the lessons I’ve learned this year, despite my many years of sailing, is to take my time and not try to rush. I watched a woman slip over on their deck, in her haste to get the lazy line tied on. Richard and I have a method worked out of doing this which keeps the boat, and us, safe. And here we are, in Calgary for a few days. We will do some boat stuff, and also be tourists and enjoy the town.
