We manage to leave Manchester in one piece and make our way to England’s capitol city. Newly-made friends from the festival-wedding host us for the first couple of nights allowing us to sight-see the touristy bits of London before we spend the weekend with Clare’s longest-standing friend and her family who live on the outskirts. I get the chance to partake in things quintessentially British, such as a visit to the Windsor castle and getting drunk in a local pub.
We then cross the English Channel as well as three national boarders via the cheapest route imaginable (yay for buses!) and find ourselves in the Netherlands most modern city just as the sun is setting. Our lovely host sneaks us into the summer’s final “movie at the park” where we gorge on hidden takeout food and cheap six-pack beer, and share laughs with our zany table-neighbors.
This last week of our journey sees us visiting all of Holland’s three major cities, and by pure coincidence, spending time with one of my oldest friends from Alaska and his partner. Wow, what a treat. I learn why all bicycles dream of living in Holland as we effortlessly peddle streets and paths that are seamlessly orchestrated for cyclists. Our final day has us catching possibly the last rays of summer sunshine along the vast beaches of Den Hague as we sip cocktails with our charismatic host—another of Clare’s European exploits—Lillian. All in all, picture perfect.
We fly back to Barcelona with just enough time to scour the suburbs (where our boat is moored) for a new “European” propane system and fill the rest of our tanks with fuel and water. That gives us just one full day to explore the complex grandiose of Barcelona before setting sail, but hey, better one day than none. Strong winds pin us in Minorca for several days, boo-hoo, before relenting enough so that we can cross 200 miles of Mediterranean sea to the island of Sardinia.
Unfortunately our stay at this Italian enclave is far too brief, but that doesn’t stop us from once again trying our fill at espresso, gelato, pizza, and pasta. We pull anchor early in the morning and set well-reefed sails that nevertheless catapult us across the wave-tossed seas of a 30-knot NW Minstrel blow. A day-and-a-half later, and just in time for our first wedding anniversary, we arrive in a new continent. Not so bad for a first year of marriage, from America to Africa under sail alone.
