The Infamous Golfe du Lion to Costa Brava

The charming town of Cadaques, Costa Brava, was our first safe anchorage on the Spanish side of the Golfe du Lion.  We slowed down and enjoyed the ambiance ... when it wasn't blowing.

We had only spent ten days on the glorious French Riviera but we(I) were anxious to cross Golfe du Lion for two reasons.  One, we had an important date in Barcelona at the beginning of October with dear friends who we didn’t want to keep waiting if at all possible.  And, two, it was already mid September and the Golfe turns into a vicious beast as the fall progresses to become the body of water sporting the most gales in the Mediterranean by winter.  

Milly and rooftops.

These restored local craft filled the harbour in Cadaques adding to it's charm.  Some had masts raked back.

The tramontane, caused by a low in the Bay of Biscay passing across the middle of France, escapes between the Pyrenees and the Massif Central, known as the Toulouse gap.  It blows along the west coast of the gulf.  The even more notorious mistral blows when a depression forms in the Gulf of Genoa and a high builds in the Bay of Biscay.  The cold air is blocked by the Alps and escapes along the Rhone valley with great force over the east coast and across the Med impacting all in it’s way.  (We raced ahead of the repercussions of one all the way to Tunisia at the end of our first season.)  The worst, and for me most intimidating, character of the winds is that they can whip up from calm to vicious gale force in less than an hour.  Crew are warned to keep a close listening watch to the radio for gale warnings - in French.  Our pilot stated that both winds can last for days - folklore says multiples of three days - and have put many a yacht at peril.

Salvador Dali's home.  Entrance by appointment only made days in advance, which we had failed to do.  

Dali's boat, named after his wife and muse, Gala.

The house had been a series of fishermen's cottages.  Dali bought the lot and restored them into one home.

The mistral has been feared since ancient times.  A Greek geographer qualified it as “an impetuous and terrible wind which displaces rocks, hurls men from their chariots, breaks their limbs and strips them of their clothes and weapons.”  Our crew, Paula, who joined us in Athens after a bike tour in Provence, had experienced a mistral when she had actually feared being thrown from her bike!

A picturesque fishing village we came across on a coastal hike.

I loved the colours.  Most were shut for the season but, through the gate of one, I spied  a magical garden of wind chimes and flower pots.

I had been fortunate to have toured Provence with my parents in 1980, even doing the polka with my mum sur la ponte d’Avignon.  Peter had not yet been.  We would have loved to visit the southern inland waterways and still see it as a possibility by canal boat at a later date.  We had seen our share of boras that tatter head sails, hid from a medicane, raced with meltimis in the Aegean, and been side swiped by a water spout in Turkey as we watched our neighbour sink.  I had had enough of the unpredictable forces of the local winds and was determined to get across the Gulf in good time without drama.  We did the 161 NM to Cadaques, Costa Brava in 30 easy hours.

We read a great travelogue on Spain called "Ghosts of Spain" which describes the Spanish, post civil war, as hedonistic.  If prevalence of 'naturist' is any indication, we would have to agree.  From Costa Brava to Canary Islands we have encountered hordes naked flesh in all shapes, sizes, ages and activities.  It is remarkable how liberated people are on a beach.  Long lunches, very late dinners, music until the 3 or 4 a.m. are all part of the very social, friendly scene.

Costa Brava gets a bad rap in many tourist books as being overdeveloped.  We did not find it so.  It was a beautiful, indented coast with jagged cliffs and grand hills.  We dallied and enjoyed it immensely.  Although still considered the Golfe du Lion until close to Barcelona, we knew we were on the right side to make it to Barcelona and could get out of a tramontane if it blew - which it did - more easily.  We still, as always, kept a close eye on clouds and forecasts.

Saturday morning folk dancing in the Blanes town square.  Anyone was welcome and I was tempted but...didn't.

Blanes is at the west end of the Costa Brava where the rugged coast suddenly turns into one very long beach.  We cycled further than you can see in the pic down highways, up riverbeds, along beaches, through trailer parks.  

Milly in the Blanes marina escaping a strong blast of wind.  Hard to believe from this photo.

Barcelona, here we come!

September 13 to October 3, 2019