Ligia turned out to be the sort of place you could end your days in. The taverna was almost within shouting distance of the moorings and the winding road past it took one up to the village itself about a mile away. There were a few shops, villas and a lovely church which we explored the next day. The evening before though, was spent at the taverna who soundly ticked off Jono for not warning of our arrival. They were very friendly and apologetic that the menu was limited but there was enough for us. They insisted on giving us small glasses of free Ouzo with every lager which I have since been told by a cynical friend, is in order to make you a little thirstier so you buy more drinks. I’m not so sure; I like to think they are just generous. On arrival though, the GPS proved its worth again. There was only one water tap working, quite a way from the moorings and the lead crew wanted to know if the brand new 50 metre hose they had just bought would reach the boats. So I set my filling cap position on the boat as a MOB waypoint and walked up to the tap with the handheld GPS. It read 66 metres to the waypoint so we were pretty sure it wasn’t worth unrolling the new hose!
Next day we set off after breakfast for the much larger port of Parga, about a two hour sail up the coast. Parga is in two parts for the flotilla sailor, the main town and the mooring area which is a mile or so to the west of the town on a sandy beach. The beach shelves very deeply so the trick is to drop the kedge anchor a few boat lengths out, then motor slowly in until the keel hits the almost vertical shelf wall. At this point there is about 6 feet of shallow water between the bows and the shoreline. The skipper takes your bow anchor and carries it onto the sand, digs a hole and buries it for you. A quick touch in reverse on the anchor winch followed by a good pull on the kedge ensures the boat is pulled up tight for the night.
It was not a good trip. We were OK but the swell, which was about eight feet in places, caused our boat to roll badly, slam off the top off the waves and take some big blue waves over the front. Again we had to put up with this for a couple of hours, still bruised from the first day, it made for an uncomfortable journey. Sophie, our hostess, had been sick again so she laid down lengthwise on the cockpit seat in the lead boat. One particularly nasty swell rolled the boat and she fell off the seat, hitting her head on the compass binnacle. She was clinically uninjured but had a bump and a bruise. This, however, only matched brother’s bruise, his he had collected when the top-loading fridge door had fallen down on him while he was searching for a beer. Most boats have a catch to hold the door but Kerkeria didn’t, as Mark found out.
As we arrived at Parga the heavens opened, we moored in something of a thunderstorm but fortunately the rain was warm. I goofed the mooring, the approach is between the sandy beach and a row of fishing boats moored opposite. I’m normally quite good with moorings but the storm blew me in a bit faster than expected, so I went past my turning point to the shore. As I reversed the prop walk kicked the stern neatly sideways and the rudder fouled a mooring line from one of the fishing boats. I spotted it about to happen and slammed the throttle into neutral to avoid getting a prop-wrap. We needed help so I called Jono in the dinghy who came over to help. Fortunately by this time the rudder pushed back onto the mooring line which tightened up, and as the boat slowed, pushed us forwards again, dropping neatly off the rudder as the tension came off. I breathed a sigh of relief and could have motored in from that point, but Jono simply pushed the bow round using his rubber dinghy as a dodgem car. We slid neatly into our mooring spot by which time the ever ready Jono was out of the dinghy, pulling our anchor with one arm while talking to another yacht with the other on the VHF. It is traditional for the crew to make a note of any goofs and “mention” them on the last night together with a little presentation. From that moment on, I was not looking forward to the last meal.
The mooring is a little isolated at Parga and there have been many reports of thefts from Yachts there over the years, the only place in the whole area that I have heard of any trouble. Mark and I took a cheap stick-on burglar alarm for the washboards so we could sleep in peace, safe in the knowledge that we would be woken if those boards were lifted out. At Parga there are only two ways to get from the moorings to the town. One is to walk along a track which is a good couple of miles and mostly unlit, or to take the water taxi. The taxi is a big old boat called Betty, and the service is run by a slightly grumpy Greek called Yannis who seems to get more grumpy every time I see him. I understand he got married a couple of years ago, despite his obvious advancing years, and it didn’t go too well. No wonder he is grumpy. For all that though, he’s a skilled helmsman, holding the big Betty ( he inherited her from his father who previously ran the service ) close to the stern of the moored yachts for his guests to climb over the prow and into the taxi. It takes about 15 minutes to cross the bay, past the large rocky outcrops and round to the town moorings. For this Yannis will charge you the princely sum of 2 Euros each way and I find it worth every penny. This time the big boat rolled a little alarmingly due to the steep seas which had not yet abated, the motion being different to that of the keelboats which we had become used to. Arriving safely though, we climbed ashore to the jetty and walked in convoy to Castellos, allegedly the best and most expensive restaurant in Parga. Castellos has a glass floor over the wine cellar some 12 feet below and, try as I might, I just couldn’t walk over it. Funnily enough though, thinking back, I must have walked over it on the way out after a few beers without even noticing. It was an excellent meal, not too expensive, and lovely surroundings. Mark and Sophie had recovered enough from their bruises to play their full part in reducing the contents of the wine cellar, so a good time was had by all. The trip back on Betty was magical, if a little damp. I managed to sit in the prow on some carpet which had collected a fair bit of the Med earlier in the evening. No matter, spare jeans were on the boat, I had, as usual, taken far too many clothes. The Pargians have seen fit to light up the whole of their city which includes a castle on the hill and the white churches which sit on the little rocky green islands just off shore. The view alone makes at least one trip to Parga a must do, although I normally try to avoid large towns like this. Yannis managed his trick of holding Betty just off the moored yachts, assisted by my small but powerful laser torch, and with his cries of “Quickly quickly, mind fingers, quickly, push push!” we moved rapidly from one yacht to the next. He had one more trip to do to pick up the 11.30 crowd before he could retire to his own bed so he was anxious to be moving on.
I was woken about 0100 hours by the sound of squeaky trainers walking around our deck and I fancied I could hear someone trying the deck hatches which of course were secured. In some places when rafted others do walk across your decks but here there is no reason to do so, unless it was the skipper checking the lines but again there seemed little need for this. I do think Parga has a resident thief but I saw no need to tackle him, he soon left when he got nowhere, and there were no reports of thefts next day, everyone had been warned both by me and the pilot book! Next morning brother pointed out how easy summer thievery could be – open hatch windows are right next to the tops of the shelves inside the cabins and it is on these shelves that one naturally puts wallets, cameras, mobile phones, passports and other valuables. It would have been the work of a moment to push an unsecured window open, put a hand inside and nip off with whatever you could grab. By the time the sleepy sailor had crawled from the berth, opened the washboards and started a chase, the thief would be long gone. Last year one of the flotilla got up early to find his wallet in the cockpit. He picked it up thinking he must have dropped it after too many beers the night before, but discovered cash and cards all missing. They had clearly thrown the wallet after removing the cash, either considerately or by luck, it fell in the cockpit. Several others had lost stuff that night too.
After the perils of Parga we had a pleasant day sailing up to Sivota. Well, it’s actually called the Sivota Islands, the port being officially called Mourtos after a huge battle left many dead there some years or centuries ago. The Greeks are not too keen on having a harbour called “Death” so it’s pretty much universally known as Sivota, which means “Safe Harbour”. There are a few Sivotas in Greece so it pays to ensure you head for the right one. This one left me fairly cold the first time I visited it two years ago, the harbour wall was scruffy, with a long walk round to the town which itself was largely closed and with a huge amount of building going on. One saving grace was that the supermarket was not only cheap but had a wonderful parrot called Coco, so I hoped I may see him again. The quayside was OK last time though, there were several tavernas along the front, all friendly with good food and reasonably priced so I hoped to make the most of a bad job. However, I was in for a very pleasant shock. The building works had been completed, the town had opened for business and we got a mooring right in front of my favourite taverna. The back street shops and restaurants, previously closed, were now thriving and open, on the south side flats and a marina had been completed with a pretty green and walkways by the quayside. A chandlers completed the picture, although I didn’t visit after hearing that you could buy shotguns and ammunition straight off the shelf there too. Scary.
Mark and I found a great little jewellers where we spent some time picking up presents for our wives, his daughters and my mother in law. Honest. I decided to let brother choose the restaurant for the night and he chose a “Meditteraneo” in the back streets on the grounds that it must be good because it was busy. He wasn’t deterred when I pointed out that MacDonald’s is usually busy too, but I wouldn’t want to eat there. It turned out that he was right though. The food was excellent and plentiful, in an Italian style. He had a huge Pizza while I had some spaghetti with prawns – my usual dish. We wandered back to the quayside and found some of our flotilla sitting by the quay, knocking back the lagers so of course we had to join them.
Tony Bennett
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