Fraser left us getting ready to leave Corfu, after we’d waved off Patrick and Chloe, and setting sail again to the south. We left Gouvia Marina, having washed every stitch of clothing in the laundry, topped up our water tanks, and had a last, long shower in the excellent facilities. It was great to be out on the open sea again though, and we pointed Barberry’s bow south-east towards the little fishing harbour of Plataria on the Greek mainland.
The last time we visited Plataria it was in a charter boat in 2022, and it had been quiet then in October. It was even quieter this early in the season, and we managed to get a berth alongside the harbour wall, capably assisted by the harbour master, Babis. Berthing alongside was a real luxury as we were able to leave the dinghy up on her davits and could just step ashore without needing a gangplank or a leap of faith.
One thing we remembered from our last visit was the local cat population. There are cats everywhere in Greece, but Plataria seems to attract even more than usual. They were draped over fishing nets in the harbour and stacked on steps in the sunshine, but as soon as a plate of food arrives on the restaurant table, or a fishing boat gets in with its catch, they all leap into action with a chorus of miaows.
With high winds forecast for the next day, we decided to stay two nights and ate in the only restaurant open in April, Olga’s Taverna. The first night, we seemed to be their only patrons but the next day, Fraser went for a jog along the beach and up the hill on the other side of the bay.
When he got back, he said, “We’re going out to dinner with some folks I met.” That might not seem too surprising, unless you know Fraser, Introvert Extraordinaire. It’s usually me who gets chatting to strangers, but this time he had hit gold. Anne and Jim, fellow sailors, hailed from Scotland and we had a great evening with them, exchanging sailing stories and getting teased by the waiter, who had a brilliant sense of humour.
It was a late night, but we both slept well, ribs aching from so much laughter. The next day, we slipped lines at 0900 and headed further south, back to Two Rocks Bay. On the way, we slipped through a narrow, shallow channel between two islands where the depth changes from more than 30m to around 2m very quickly. It’s quite an experience, seeing the sea change colour from deep blue to turquoise beneath you, every detail of the sandy bottom visible, then return to its usual deep blue again.
Last time, we had Two Rocks Bay to ourselves; this time we shared it with three other boats, but as there was very little wind, there was plenty of space for all of us. Fraser cooked us meatballs and pasta, followed by Greek yoghurt with honey and seeds, all washed down with Retsina (a sharp Greek wine — acquired taste!).
Our aim was to get through the Levkas Canal and into the Southern Ionian, so we set our alarms for 0700 and prepared to raise the anchor by 0800. While we munched our breakfast cereal, we FaceTimed Laura (middle child) in Canada. It was late evening for her and early morning for us with the 10-hour time difference. It felt surreal, discussing her ice skating lessons as we sat rocking gently in our little secluded bay.
The wind was flukey at first, giving us a wonderful beam reach sail for a while before veering onto our stern, leading to an inadvertant gybe in slow motion, then continued around until it was dead on the nose. We furled the big genoa at the front of the boat and motor-sailed the rest of the journey.
The Levkas Canal was first built in the mid 7th century BC by the Corinthians and still serves a purpose after all these centuries, allowing boats to slip into the Inland Sea from the North Ionian without having to sail around the fairly boring and exposed outer side of Levkas Island. There’s a floating bridge that allows road traffic onto and off the island and prevents boats passing through except for brief periods on the hour, when the entire bridge swings and allows boats through while car drivers fume silently in the baking sun, waiting for the bridge to come back.
We were third in the queue of yachts waiting for the klaxon to announce the bridge opening, but the German boat in front of us lost his nerve and headed back to sea. I couldn’t blame him. It’s nail-biting stuff, trying to hold your position against wind and current, with eyes flashing everywhere in case one of the other boats nearby loses control and turns into you.
Finally the klaxon sounded and we all straightened up our boats, beginning the slow procession through the bridge. At this time of year, it’s still fairly quiet but there still between six and ten of us pottering through. It’s a great experience, seeing it from the water this time around.
Once through the bridge, the Levkas Canal continues on southwards for a long way. It’s strange, having sea on both sides of us while we pass between banks that mark the dredged channel. Sort of a weird cross between the French canals and the sea. We’re part of a convoy, trying to keep at the same speed as the boat in front until at last the banks fall away and we’re released into the Inland Sea with the island of Levkas on our right and the Greek mainland cutting away into the distance on our left.
Our destination for that night was an anchorage called Tranquil Bay. If ever a bay were misnamed, this is it. I suppose it’s tranquil in one sense, in that it’s well protected from wind in almost every direction, but there the resemblance ends. We counted 40 boats in the tiny anchorage, many appearing to be abandoned and several sunk, showing only the masts or a bit of the superstructure above the water. The sea, crystal clear almost everywhere else around here, was a murky, unhealthy green and the noise from Nidri drifted across the water too.
To cheer us up, Fraser made our signature dish: beer bread pizza in the polo-mint-shaped Omnia Oven. This is easy to make with very few ingredients and is a real comfort meal. Very soon, we forgot about the menacing aspect of our anchorage and our mouths began to water at the aroma of baking bread.
We slept well enough but were both anxious about retrieving the anchor in case it had become caught up in debris on the seabed with so many wrecks around. Luckily, it came up easily and had been well dug into the soft, muddy bottom. We left Tranquil Bay with the silent intention of never returning and spent the morning sight-seeing instead. The coast around the islands is deep until really close in, so we drifted around admiring the beauty ashore, only heading off when we saw signs of security guards on Skorpios Island, once the private retreat of Onassis, now in the possession of a Russian billionairess who guards her privacy well!
Our destination for that day was the little fishing harbour of Vathy on Meganisi. As we were running out of water, we’d booked into a marina for one night with dreams of showers and other luxuries. We were disappointed because only the men’s showers were functional, and even those had live electric wires dangling from the wall so using them was a little risky!
It also turned out to be very noisy with giant lorries trundling past a few feet from Barberry’s stern carrying building rubble and concrete to and from the new villas being built all over this picturesque part of the islands. Apparently the plots of land sell for €2 million even before the house is built, according to Ian, a well known YouTuber who we follow. His channel, Sailing Blown Away, has been an inspiration to us for a long time now.
We had lunch with Ian and his lovely Norwegian friend, Monica, then he invited us onto Blown Away that evening for a barbecue. Blown Away is a huge steel ketch, and Ian lives aboard her permanently. He even has a gas barbecue aboard, and we ate wonderful chicken with delicious salads made by Monica, washed down by the bottle of wine that had been given us in Gouvia by Omega Charters.
We had originally intended to stay a couple of days in Vathy, but the traffic noise and dust sent us scarpering the next morning, heading towards the next bay. Like Vathy, it’s over 30 years since we last anchored in Abalaki Bay and that time we were on a sailing flotilla holiday, our first ever time sailing together. We were worried in case it, too, had been ruined by building work and too much tourism, but it hasn’t let us down.
This bay is everything we hoped for from this voyage to the Mediterranean and more. We swam from the boat again, and the water is warm. There are a couple of tavernas on the beach that weren’t there in 1993, but only one is open in this early season. Still, we have struck lucky with the one that’s open as it serves wonderful food, freshly squeezed orange juice, and great showers and toilet facilities. In fact, that’s where I’m typing this blog, beneath a sunshade with the turquoise waters of Abalaki Bay stretched out in front of me. If there’s such a place as Heaven, I reckon this is as close as a person gets without having to die first.
