....and here we are on the way again. Twenty four hours in Bermuda certainly doesn’t do it justice, but a weather window beckons and at 17.00 we were nosing our way back down the channel and heading east. St Georges last night seemed totally deserted. After a little steadier on the boat, we toddled off on a twenty minute walk to the Dinghy Sailing Club that had been recommended as reasonable for food, but it was pretty quiet, the eating bit closed, the bar populated by half a dozen stalwarts who looked to be fixtures plus an amateur barman who was stumped when asked to mix the ‘ Rum Swizzles Only $3.50’ advertised on a large sign behind the bar. Still, he phoned a friend and then set to work with gusto. Four different rums, some pineapple juice, a handful of ice and then another slug of black rum later, four Swizzles appeared and the evening moved up a gear. Food also moved up the agenda, so the team headed back to town, stopping only in the East End mini sailing club where the signature drink was locally made rum with ginger beer. This was doubly excellent as a nice local gentleman called Neil insisted on buying us the first round, thus meaning a dutiful reciprocal second. We were made very welcome, but food was becoming vital, and hunger was finally assuaged in the White Lion with three burgers and one fish – plus chips, and thus, the end of a long day.

There’s a weather front lurking in the Atlantic north of the island, so this morning was grey and spitting with drizzle. However preparations for the next big leg continued apace – anchor in and stowed, dinghy lashed down, hatches sealed and taped; in short everything readied for whatever the Atlantic might bring. St Georges by day perked up a bit – it’s actually quite pretty with colour-washed Georgian looking houses, cobbled roads and stone waterfront, but somehow it’s faintly twee and unreal. The effect is heightened when a huge cruise ship arrived, towering over the little square that increasingly looked like Toytown and disgorging its uniform cargo of elderly corpulence to shuffle round the guest shops and attractions. Still, it’s warm, the people are friendly and we’ll be miles away by nightfall. Around four, we shifted to the fuel dock, loaded 300 litres of diesel and about the same of water, bade farewell to another Plymouth boat docked beside us and then ticked off the red and green channel markers till the large black and yellow cardinal that announced the Atlantic - only 1800 miles to go.

Knot of the day: Flying bowline (very cool)  Nautical term: Poop (more of that anon)

 A well earned little something