Abersoch to Aberdaron

The wind moved around to the North at some point during the night, so chose to anchor back at my spot in front of RCYC where the swell was less pronounced, before breakfast. With time to kill, I rowed ashore and had a wander around town which is a bustling little place with everyone enjoying the first sunshine for days. On the way into town and lying around Tintown - an appallingly ugly high rise stack of concrete and corrugated iron beach hunts, lay the remnants of hulls and masts and pieces of wood and fibreglass from dinghies lost or damaged in last Thursday’s storm. Others were lying on their sides still strapped to their launching trolleys as testament to the wind’s strength, as does the massively stout stainless steel banisters, bent and twisted, on the Club’s slipway.    By 2pm the tide was flooding and made the run to Aberdaron possible. With the sun still shinning, a wonderfully memory laden, sail up St Tudwal’s Sound past the two Islands, visited yesterday, and then past Porth Ceiriad, a bay we used to surf at during and just after my Ellesmere College kayaking days. I could see the campsite on the hill where for weeks on end we stayed; hiding from the owner, each morning, when he came to collect the campsite dues. I wished I had time to stop and wander up the steep path to the campsite and see whether the grassy bank on which we turned an Austin A35 on its side to Isopon the sump after an oil-emptying argument with a rock was still there, as was the waterfall on the beach, we used to wash the salt off, after canoeing. And the dark damp cave that seemed to be an endless source of driftwood collected during the day and dried for the beach goings-on most nights! What sunny carefree times they were. Round the next headland and Porth Neigwl – Hell’s Mouth, comes into view, a daunting wild untamed and featureless sandy bay that rekindles surfing memories; and the nearby pub – The Sun Inn, where casual romances developed during the few weeks’ freedom; made possible by being paid handsomely to dive and attach air bags to a score of mostly speed boats, sunk on their Abersoch moorings. The islands that mark the entrance to Aberdaron Bay hove into view, as does the much larger Bardsey Island – the island of swirling currents – where hundreds, if not thousands of pilgrims lie buried; heeding to its religious significance, from as far back,as the Middle Ages.
   Aberdaron is not a recommended anchorage, according to Reeds, more a waiting room, before you attempt Bardsey Sound and The Tripods, the race on the northern side. The race on the southern end – The Devil’s Ridge is best avoided by hugging the coast. Apparently the ground is not good holding and Reed’s suggest you do not leave your boat unattended! As the wind had dropped to a mere whisper and the bay almost swell free, I let out 3 times the recommended chain and risked it. A delightful meal of locally caught sea bass, spinach and samfire in this totally unspoilt village of 60 or less souls, according to the Ship Hotel’s owner, boasts a Post Office a real bakery a shop and two hotels! The church recently rebuilt, has its immaculate graveyard perched on the side of the hill overlooking the bay. On such a still night, it is hard to believe how many souls have been lost on this stretch of coast, an illustration of the LLeyn Peninsula on the hotel wall, showing all the shipwrecks from 1700’s, suggests many – thousands too many. With that in mind I sat on the balcony and kept an eye on Equinox... just in case!
    Tomorrow’s passage to Porth Dinnlaen further around the tip of the Peninsula and up the other side, will be planned with just a little extra care!