Violetta
New member
The watch was relieved at midnight but we could not bring ourselves to go below. The night was perfect. From horizon to horizon, the calm sea was floodlit by a full moon, shining from a starry sky of such magnificence it took our breath away. The wind, just strong enough to keep the schooner moving steadily with all her topsails set, touched our faces with the milky warmth of high summer. All around us and in the schooner’s wake the water disturbed by her passing fizzed and sparked with phosphorescence. Earlier we had been visited by dolphins, each one robed in green and trailing flashing emeralds. Now we were alone in the universe, but for the double flash of a distant light winking away on the horizon far to port; Creac’h, the mighty lighthouse of Ushant. No-one spoke. No-one moved. No-one could bear to break the spell.
We came on deck again at six. The morning was pink and grey. Mother-of-pearl and dove grey in the sky; pewter and gunmetal in the sea; both touched with delicate salmon pinks in the east and rose pinks in the west. The schooner dipped steadily southwards with the fluent rhythm of a sailing boat at peace with the world. On the horizon ahead a pencil line materialised, hardened and began to take shape; the Isles de Glénans.
By mid-morning the sun had burnt away the early clouds. Under a deep blue sky the schooner dropped her anchor in a tranquil sound between low and treeless islands of ancient rock worn smooth and rounded by the wild winds and seas of Biscay. On a day like this it was hard to credit the fearful reputation of the Bay.
We could see a few small boats on moorings in the sound and others drawn up on the foreshore. In the passages between the islands there appeared the sails of others; all, apparently, converging on the anchorage. Of human habitation there was no sign except for the weathered grey stone fortress of Cigogne, Vauban’s bastion against the English corsairs, standing foursquare to dominate the sound.
Landing at an old stone jetty, we filed along a dusty path towards the gateway of the fortress. Tiny lizards basked on the sun-warmed rocks, motionless and watchful, darting away as our shadows fell on them. Brilliant red geraniums sprouted from the walls and crevices of the fortress. The flowers and an astonishing diversity of lichens gave life and colour to the sunlit grey of rocks and stones. Passing through the deep, cool shadow of a great stone archway, we entered the courtyard.
Before us stood a big circle of trestle tables. Each was laden with platters of meats and cheeses, piles of round country loaves, slabs of white butter, plump tomatoes, purple onions, glistening black olives, earthenware bowls of salad, overflowing baskets of fruit and mounds of crumbly yellow Breton cakes. At intervals between the tables stood gallows made from lashed stakes, from which hung all kinds of saucissons and knives to cut them into chunks. Dotted around the courtyard were trios of barrels; beaujolais, muscadet and Breton cider. Gradually, the courtyard filled with sailors that had come together from all over Europe to celebrate an anniversary. And so the celebrations began.
We ate and drank and talked and laughed and sang and lay in the sun on a grassy bank and ate and drank some more. Gradually the merry uproar died away to a subdued hum of sleepy conversation. As the barrels emptied, some of the younger crews lay prone with open mouths beneath the taps, draining each one to the last drop. It seemed the afternoon would simply fade away into an evening of repletion and contented idleness.
But we hadn’t reckoned with the speeches. Out of the blue our reverie was shattered by the racket and whirlwind of a helicopter landing just outside the fortress walls. At the summit of the grassy bank there appeared no lesser personage than Monsieur le Ministre de Sport, fresh from Paris and bursting with bonhomie. Beaming at his side stood Monsieur le Maire de Concarneau, radiating pleasure at the opportunity for an afternoon’s escape to helicopter rides and festivities in the sunny islands. I doubt if many in the somnolent audience really heard or cared exactly what the two distinguished visitors had to say, but their presence and their eloquence were enough to put the icing on the cake. Everyone was thoroughly delighted, including the gentlemen themselves.
Fortified by the fine words and noble sentiments uttered by these notables, the sailors decided to sail. Whether it was planned or not I shall never know, but all at once the lethargy of the afternoon was dissipated. A cheerful polyglot crowd forged down to the old stone jetty and off to the boats. Frenchman, Englishmen, Irishmen, Belgians, Dutchmen, Spaniards, Italians all mixed together, swapping crews in a glorious maritime Tower of Babel. The lovely old schooner proved a great attraction. She lost nine of her crew of twelve and gained not a native English speaker in return. No matter; they were all sailors.
Somehow we all got safely underway. Out of the undirected chaos there emerged a pattern; a great wheel of sailing boats, large and small, probably 50 or more, circling lazily in the late afternoon sunshine. From somewhere in the fleet we heard the exotic squawk of the Breton bagpipe. Not to be outdone, the schooner replied with tunes & shanties played on the harmonica from the main crosstrees; “Tom’s Gone to Hilo”, “Leave Her, Johnny, Leave Her”, “Shenendoah”, that quintessentially plaintive mouth organ tune and then, of course, as a courtesy to our hosts, “La Marseillaise”. Singing voices rose and fell as different crews joined in as we passed by. Two common languages united us all; the language of boats and the sea and the ancient language of music.
As the glare of the afternoon sun softened into the long light of evening, the light breeze hesitated, shifted, revived and finally fell away. The crew of the old cutter “Sereine”, flagship of the Glénans fleet, handed her sails, shipped her long sweep and started to scull away toward her own mooring. One by one the little Golifs and Coutres de Glénans followed suit. Gradually the formation dispersed as effortlessly as it had assembled, without incident or ill humour. The multi-national crews embraced and returned to their own boats or to their quarters in the guardhouse and chambers of the fortress. The first bright stars of the evening appeared in a sky of luminous turquoise and red gold.
Sleepy though we were, we still could not turn in. All we wanted was to savour the beauty of all we had seen and the joy of all we had done. As the schooner lay quietly at anchor and the full moon rose again over the islands, we sat on deck with a nightcap of eau-de-vie, sometimes sharing our thoughts and sometimes lapsing into companionable silence. I think I was not alone in recognising that this was a day that would stay in my memory forever.
These are my memories of the 25th anniversary celebrations of the Centre Nautique de Glénans. The schooner was the “Hoshi” (70 foot gaff rigged schooner designed and built by Nicholson in 1909) I was the harmonica player.
<hr width=100% size=1>
We came on deck again at six. The morning was pink and grey. Mother-of-pearl and dove grey in the sky; pewter and gunmetal in the sea; both touched with delicate salmon pinks in the east and rose pinks in the west. The schooner dipped steadily southwards with the fluent rhythm of a sailing boat at peace with the world. On the horizon ahead a pencil line materialised, hardened and began to take shape; the Isles de Glénans.
By mid-morning the sun had burnt away the early clouds. Under a deep blue sky the schooner dropped her anchor in a tranquil sound between low and treeless islands of ancient rock worn smooth and rounded by the wild winds and seas of Biscay. On a day like this it was hard to credit the fearful reputation of the Bay.
We could see a few small boats on moorings in the sound and others drawn up on the foreshore. In the passages between the islands there appeared the sails of others; all, apparently, converging on the anchorage. Of human habitation there was no sign except for the weathered grey stone fortress of Cigogne, Vauban’s bastion against the English corsairs, standing foursquare to dominate the sound.
Landing at an old stone jetty, we filed along a dusty path towards the gateway of the fortress. Tiny lizards basked on the sun-warmed rocks, motionless and watchful, darting away as our shadows fell on them. Brilliant red geraniums sprouted from the walls and crevices of the fortress. The flowers and an astonishing diversity of lichens gave life and colour to the sunlit grey of rocks and stones. Passing through the deep, cool shadow of a great stone archway, we entered the courtyard.
Before us stood a big circle of trestle tables. Each was laden with platters of meats and cheeses, piles of round country loaves, slabs of white butter, plump tomatoes, purple onions, glistening black olives, earthenware bowls of salad, overflowing baskets of fruit and mounds of crumbly yellow Breton cakes. At intervals between the tables stood gallows made from lashed stakes, from which hung all kinds of saucissons and knives to cut them into chunks. Dotted around the courtyard were trios of barrels; beaujolais, muscadet and Breton cider. Gradually, the courtyard filled with sailors that had come together from all over Europe to celebrate an anniversary. And so the celebrations began.
We ate and drank and talked and laughed and sang and lay in the sun on a grassy bank and ate and drank some more. Gradually the merry uproar died away to a subdued hum of sleepy conversation. As the barrels emptied, some of the younger crews lay prone with open mouths beneath the taps, draining each one to the last drop. It seemed the afternoon would simply fade away into an evening of repletion and contented idleness.
But we hadn’t reckoned with the speeches. Out of the blue our reverie was shattered by the racket and whirlwind of a helicopter landing just outside the fortress walls. At the summit of the grassy bank there appeared no lesser personage than Monsieur le Ministre de Sport, fresh from Paris and bursting with bonhomie. Beaming at his side stood Monsieur le Maire de Concarneau, radiating pleasure at the opportunity for an afternoon’s escape to helicopter rides and festivities in the sunny islands. I doubt if many in the somnolent audience really heard or cared exactly what the two distinguished visitors had to say, but their presence and their eloquence were enough to put the icing on the cake. Everyone was thoroughly delighted, including the gentlemen themselves.
Fortified by the fine words and noble sentiments uttered by these notables, the sailors decided to sail. Whether it was planned or not I shall never know, but all at once the lethargy of the afternoon was dissipated. A cheerful polyglot crowd forged down to the old stone jetty and off to the boats. Frenchman, Englishmen, Irishmen, Belgians, Dutchmen, Spaniards, Italians all mixed together, swapping crews in a glorious maritime Tower of Babel. The lovely old schooner proved a great attraction. She lost nine of her crew of twelve and gained not a native English speaker in return. No matter; they were all sailors.
Somehow we all got safely underway. Out of the undirected chaos there emerged a pattern; a great wheel of sailing boats, large and small, probably 50 or more, circling lazily in the late afternoon sunshine. From somewhere in the fleet we heard the exotic squawk of the Breton bagpipe. Not to be outdone, the schooner replied with tunes & shanties played on the harmonica from the main crosstrees; “Tom’s Gone to Hilo”, “Leave Her, Johnny, Leave Her”, “Shenendoah”, that quintessentially plaintive mouth organ tune and then, of course, as a courtesy to our hosts, “La Marseillaise”. Singing voices rose and fell as different crews joined in as we passed by. Two common languages united us all; the language of boats and the sea and the ancient language of music.
As the glare of the afternoon sun softened into the long light of evening, the light breeze hesitated, shifted, revived and finally fell away. The crew of the old cutter “Sereine”, flagship of the Glénans fleet, handed her sails, shipped her long sweep and started to scull away toward her own mooring. One by one the little Golifs and Coutres de Glénans followed suit. Gradually the formation dispersed as effortlessly as it had assembled, without incident or ill humour. The multi-national crews embraced and returned to their own boats or to their quarters in the guardhouse and chambers of the fortress. The first bright stars of the evening appeared in a sky of luminous turquoise and red gold.
Sleepy though we were, we still could not turn in. All we wanted was to savour the beauty of all we had seen and the joy of all we had done. As the schooner lay quietly at anchor and the full moon rose again over the islands, we sat on deck with a nightcap of eau-de-vie, sometimes sharing our thoughts and sometimes lapsing into companionable silence. I think I was not alone in recognising that this was a day that would stay in my memory forever.
These are my memories of the 25th anniversary celebrations of the Centre Nautique de Glénans. The schooner was the “Hoshi” (70 foot gaff rigged schooner designed and built by Nicholson in 1909) I was the harmonica player.
<hr width=100% size=1>
