TO THE FRACTAL WEST OF IRELAND

My patronising ‘Yes dear’ in reply to my wife Frances was followed by getting into oilies very quickly indeed, and an intense collaboration between us, me on the foredeck and she at the helm. It transpired that I had miscounted the cable markers on last night’s re-anchoring off Great Blasket after we were nearly blown on to Beginish, and our 1998 gaff ketch Betty Alan was now on the wrong side of the rocks. As I wound the anchor up in the horrible near-panic of that morning, all but shipwrecked, I realised that I’d only put down 15m of chain, not 35m. Drink had contributed to this folly, for while we are sober under sail, we do have a beverage if securely at anchor. Just one glass had been enough to knock my concentration over. We didn’t stop shaking until we were tied up in Dingle.

We were cruising south-west Ireland to revisit 1980s sailing holidays with my mum Betty, the boat’s eponymous godmother. Prior to our anchoring mishap, we had met Betty and in-laws in Crosshaven