Fécamping Out

Fécamp was our second luscious little stop-over on the passage to Amsterdam and many had spoken of its unrivalled beauty.

Perched in a minor cove along the picturesque Alabaster coast, flanked with natural sea-arches standing tall and proud beside the bay, welcoming the weary traveller to their own little slice of quiet French paradise.

We were thrilled at the chance to gaze upon it with our own eyes and marvel in its natural majesty.

So off we set on what was to be our longest stint yet, across the wide undulating expanse of the Bay de Seine.

The wind was much better than we had even dreamed, an almost constant, steady push of force 4 with gusts barely a few knots above, ushering us out to play upon the rolling hills of the ocean, and play we did.

For little over two days we skated up and down that sparkling cerulean sea, with clear skies and even clearer waters, we had the kind of fun we hadn't dared to dream.

Little to no traffic to bother us, even the ferries were only ever mere specks in the distance as they ploughed serenely from Britain to France, carting their cosy cargoes to and fro for the holidays, neither a bother to the other.

It was a magical journey, the most I've enjoyed the quiet probably over my whole life and with my trusty thermals, the claws of the chill stood no chance of stealing away my serenity.

Unfortunately, the weather may have been a little too good, as we ended up several hours ahead of schedule, which is usually tremendous news.

Burnt skin and bruised bones benefit brilliantly from haste harnessed hours, but in this case, it meant that instead of coming upon the land under the cuprous cusp of dawn and witnessing the natural splendour of light's play on those stratified cliffs, against the rolling hills that embraced the outskirts of the dreamy village itself, we never got to witness the glory of Fécamp's arches by light of day.

We did get to witness the fiery bloom of dusk's light play on the cliffs though thankfully, but from further afield than I would have preferred, the sight was still a beauty to behold.

But by the time we were on our final approach, Fécamp was a glittering constellation beneath the shrouded cloak of night, no splendours of nature to lead us in to rest, but gentle blinking of beacons to guide us in.

We felt blessed as the stiff winds began to soften on our approach.

We were warned to be wary when making entry in lumpy seas and stiff winds, but lady luck had gifted us a reprieve and the heavy blow had lessened enough for us to make our way inside safely.

Energy low and hunger high, we began our final preparations to arrive.

Tom staggered below, as steady as he could, to make the call to the marina.

But was greeted with nothing but silence.

This wasn't entirely unexpected, since sailing in Europe, we've found it more common than not for marinas to be unresponsive, but in this situation, we found ourselves a little more worried than usual.

Fécamp's marina facilities are split in two, with the smaller marina, for day-tripping motor boats and light-weight skimming sailboats, was in the first half and behind an opening bridge, lay the bay of bigger berths.

To gain access, the bridge would need lifting, which would require the harbour master.

The harbour master who was also not replying to our calls.

Feeling the siren's call of a nice hot dinner and soft, stationary bunk, we decided to poke our heads in and see if we could sort things out and as luck would have it, though the berths were small, the pontoon ends had just about enough room for a temporary tie-on.

So, watched by impassive French fishermen, dangling their rods from the pier, we chugged into port and lashed ourselves onto the pontoon before making way for the offices to see what we could do.

But, much to our dismay, the staff appeared to have evaporated, leaving behind nothing but misty windows and empty coffee cups to mark their passing.

So after a moment's silence for the brave souls who vaporised in the line of duty, we pottered back to our boat for a good meal and a night's rest, hoping in the morning they would have reconstituted.

But alas, this was not to be.

We saw neither hide not hair of any port officials during our visit, which meant no ability to restock our water or electricity.

Luckily, both our tanks and batteries are enormous, so this did not pose too much of a worry, but clean marina showers were sorely missed.

Despite the absence of any welcome, the town of Fécamp was lovely.

The bits we got to see were anyway.

Being a tourist town, most of it was closed for the winter, but we did find a still serving coffee shop where we received lovely service with a smile and got to exercise our French language abilities with many a bonjour and much cáfe pas lait.

The chandlery was closed though unfortunately, or fortunately is you ask my wallet, but window shopping was fairly pleasant and less slimming than the regular kind.

For the most part, we spent our time there enjoying the view and relaxing, waiting for an opening to make our next jump up to Bolougne-sur-mer, from where we hoped to make the crossing over to Belgium and beyond that, The Netherlands.

But alas, that too was not to be for reasons I shall go into in the next tale.

Don't worry, it's got more to offer than this one. (It's got castles in it!)

(Well, one castle. But it's a pretty big one!)