A holiday with a one-off sixteen footer

In 1976 I joined two friends from Durham in a villa in Carnac Plage, Brittany, which we borrowed from the father of a mutual friend, Jean Paul Fraval. Along with the villa came a Piaf, a fourteen foot plywood dinghy. I eventually persuaded Jez and Olly that we should go sailing, and we picked as our destination the distant smudge that was the island of Houat.

At first, Houat became larger encouragingly quickly as its bulk came over the horizon, and the comforting presence of the Quiberon peninsula to the right of us gave the expedition an upbeat feel. Then, for a long long time, the island persistently refused to grow any more until one of us happened to look back and remarked that the beach we had sailed from now looked an awfully long way away, and was anyone in fact sure exactly which bit we would eventually need to return to…? Even though I had a small compass, I was a Broads sailor and never really took much notice of them. Undaunted, we carried on since the weather was fine and stable and we could easily head for Quiberon and back along the coast. Then, as we passed the tip of the peninsula, the waves increased in size and looked as if they might continue to do so the further we carried on. I had occasionally sailed out to sea from Felixstowe ferry, or in sheltered bays on Cornish holidays, but had never encountered anything like this. In order to maintain my credibility with my now green-tinged crew, I suggested that as it was getting on, we might consider turning back and try for Houat another day. How quickly they agreed!

I never thought that this would be my last sail for 20 years. Over the following decades, Houat assumed an almost legendary aspect. Until in August 1998, we set out trailing Black Jack David, with Enrico the Pico on the car roof, for a three-week Breton holiday.

The Baie de Quiberon is a shield-shaped affair, around 7 nautical miles wide and some 20 deep. Its rounded tip points north-west; the NE side of the bay is formed by the mainland and is punctuated by the Crac’h estuary where lies the port of La Trinité, a major yachting centre, and then by the narrow entrance to the Golfe de Morbihan, an inland sea dotted with small islands. The SW side of the bay is defined by the Presqu’île de Quiberon, a rocky, banana-shaped island, joined to the mainland by an isthmus of sand-dunes making it a curved peninsula nearly 10 miles long. This is continued by the islands of Houat and Hoëdic, the intervening gaps being filled with reefs and smaller islands. The three passages between the Baie de Quiberon and that of Biscay are sheltered by the natural breakwater formed by the larger island of Belle Île which runs parallel to Quiberon, Houat and Hoëdic, separated from them by a 5-mile wide sound. The mouth of the baie gives onto a somewhat larger stretch of water which is sheltered from the north and east at the beginning of the NE corner of Biscay. Quiberon is a fine sailing area blessed by good weather and the easy availability of wonderful food.

If the Baie de Quiberon is shaped like a shield, the Baie de Plouharnel is like a sporran protruding from beneath it, assuming that its wearer would dress to the right. It is an almost enclosed, triangular piece of water with beaches of fine white sand and which largely dries at low tide, making it possible to walk and wade from the mainland to Quiberon itself. At high tide, we sailed across it in Enrico the Pico in the company of swarms of windsurfers. At low tide we explored the winding channels, picking our way between the tractors of oyster farmers. Between the two bays stands the Pointe St‑Colomban, where the coast road leaves the sea to cut across the headland. Jean Paul’s house is on this road where it crosses the headland, back towards the sea. Turn left and a hundred yards away is the rocky Plage de St-Colomban, and off it, La Chambre where Black Jack lay anchored. Two hundred yards to the right, on the eastern side of the headland is the sandy Plage Ty-Bihan, with a yellow-buoyed access channel through which I had taken to bringing Black Jack, keel raised, beaching on the soft sand to take on passengers and cargo and astonishing the thronging sun-worshipers.

I woke at 5:00 and unwisely decided to give myself another half hour in bed. The next thing I knew it was six-thirty. By the time I had embarked Thomas and Jean Paul and stores, it was 8:30. The wind was a force 2, NNE, and by 10:15 the Quiberon Nord cardinal buoy bore 270° compass, and the lighthouse marking the Passage de Ia Teignouse bore 200°. On my yachtmaster evening class, I had been very sceptical about the benefits of chartwork for my single-handed hops, but with Jean-Paul available to take the helm I was glad that I remembered how to make corrections and plot a fix.

We picked up the transit of the Quiberon Sud buoy and Ia Teignouse at 10:28, by which time the wind had all but dropped. We then began to meet Ia houle, coming through le Passage de la Teignouse. I smiled as I thought back to the last time I had been in this place, 22 years before. We started the outboard and set a compass course of 146°. We were aiming for the beaches on the western end of Houat.

We neared the beach on a rising tide without bothering to raise the keel. A few other boats were anchored and as we touched, we followed suit. I threw the kedge shore-ward and a bearded ruddy-faced man shouted to ask if I wanted him to retrieve it. I smiled and said no-thanks. A moment later, there was a splash and Thomas, just nine, was doing an impressive crawl for the shore. Finding his depth, he retrieved the kedge and took it up the beach. A moment later, I had joined him. I was at last on Houat.

I dug out the petrol stove, a can of beef stew and an ancient packet of noodles. Jean Paul, showing true Gallic appreciation for the importance of food considered the repast with alarm, but in the end, we all tucked in, using pieces of driftwood as forks. The bearded man, whose motorboat lay at anchor, came and offered us a glass of wine, and his wife produced a fork that she had found on the beach, which we took turns to use. They were from Nantes, and had planed over from their holiday home on the Presqu’île de Sarzeau in only half an hour. We passed an agreeable hour or so chatting over the wine before we set out to explore the largely uninhabited western end of Houat. We passed rocky coves with perfect beaches and water clearer than anything near the mainland. We inspected the rusting cannon around the fort, still complete with inch-thick steel shields, part of Hitler’s Atlantic wall. We watched the raids in catamarans from sailing schools, while Thomas hunted lizards. And then headed back for the beach before the tide beached Black Jack.

A group of fishermen was unloading buckets from a small motor boat. The sea was black with ink. The squids were in fact cuttlefish, les seiches. Each unhappy mollusc was plucked, still living, from a bucket, deprived of its bone, washed and placed in another bucket in a few seconds. Jean Paul said something to a fisherman, who presented a cuttlefish bone fresh from its owner to Thomas. “Watch the tide,” shouted our friend as we left, “it’s taking you toward the dangers!” We had come equipped for a night’s stay, but I knew that Jean Paul wanted to get back, so as we set sail to a freshening wind, I was surprised that he suggested a trip around the island. I was perturbed too by the prospect of finding my way through the rocks, but encouraged by the success of my new skills in chartwork, I agreed.

“What’s that rock…?” asked Jean Paul as we traversed the entrance to the Passage du Béniguet. “It’s not on the chart…”

“It’s Men er Broc,” I said. The line which described its contour was so small as to be just a dot on the chart, but for some reason this dot was preferred to the asterisk symbol.

“God, look at that houle…” said Jean Paul, pointing at Bonnenn Vraz. The swell, though it seemed lazy and soft from the boat, was making a fearful uproar about the rock and its tourelle.

At 5:42 I took a fix on the buoy marking Le Rouleau, and the fort on the far end of Houat. I determined that it was safe to set a course along the outside of Houat between the south side of island and the smaller Île aux Chevaux. We were now, I suppose, in Biscay. Taking advantage of the presence of someone competent who was willing to take the helm, I dug out the spinnaker that I had bought for ten pounds at a boat jumble, but had never flown. The spinnaker halyard that I had rigged in my initial enthusiasm had proved useful for hoisting a steaming light, and I had various other bits and pieces around the boat.

“This may not work first time,” I explained to Jean Paul as I screwed a small cleat onto the jib stick and fixed a bungy cord to the mast to serve as a downhaul. It was unfortunate that the conversation had lapsed from French into English, as it is not easy to explain what ‘Heath Robinson’ means to a Breton, even if he does teach English to businessmen. It is particularly difficult to do this while you are threading your kedge warp through your after mooring cleats to act as a spinnaker guy, trying to keep careful lookout for rocks all the time. Despite all this, the spinnaker flew successfully, giving us added impetus in case we should have a close encounter with any rocks. Might as well be hung for a sheep… as they say; if you’re going to go, go in style.

The rocks around the Breton coast have a grandeur that is special to the place. Awash, they are a lurking menace, drying a little, they are rocks like any other; it is only when they dry to the full extent of the large tidal range that the intricacies of their water-sculpted patterns are exposed. They are like piles of huge boulders laid in vertical walls by Aztec craftsmen, but the quality they posses betrays no human hand. They resemble line drawings, or American cartoons of the Incredible Hulk. They are indescribable. We rounded the SE tip of Houat between Beg Tost and Beg Creiz, and saw across the bay of Tréac’h er Goured the gargantuan pyramidal form of Er Yoc’h. Rounding this, we tacked between a heavily buoyed mussel bed and the dramatic off-lying stack of La Vieille.

“I wouldn’t like to find that at night time,” said Jean Paul, referring to the mussel bed.

Out in the middle of the Baie de Quiberon the wind, now NW, began to drop again, though the short steep waves coming down the fetch from the head of the bay persisted. Black Jack never likes such conditions, needing wind to power through waves, as Jean Paul was discovering. I took a last fix as the sun set, furled the sails, rigged the lights and started the outboard. We should have made a two-day trip of it, but time, tide and modern schedules wait for no man.

“Steer a course of 221° compass.”

“What, for St-Co…?” asked Jean Paul, incredulous, but he grudgingly complied with the compass as I had set it. Somehow, my tired brain had managed to compute and set the compass to the correct course of 321°, while subtracting 100° when I told him what it was. Under the full power of the 5hp Tohatsu, Black Jack smashed through the waves, throwing up great sprays of water. As it grew darker, I asked him if he could see the compass.

“It’s all right,” he said confidently, “I can see St-Co over there.” He pointed at a distant patch of darkness where the lights of the coast road were hidden by the headland. I shone a torch on the compass, which read 321°, on the nose.

There were some difficult moments as we identified the house lights on the Pointe St‑Colomban, aware of the unseen rocks on either side of us. We finally made out the diving board off Ty-Bihan, and nosed in. I jumped over and carried Thomas home to bed before returning to the boat, deciding to anchor off the beach for the night rather than motor round the headland to La Chambre. Jean Paul was rightly concerned as I floundered about in the dark with an offshore wind and in near pitch dark, paddling out much too far before realising my mistake and starting the motor. However, it was tiredness of the mind rather than the body and as I let go the side and swam ashore, I really enjoyed this final rounding off the day. Back at the house we demolished the remains of the beef stew that Sue had earlier fed to the kids, and began to plan our next trip, the Golfe de Morbihan.