Amore: Parga

It took two attempts to get to Parga. It’s a very pretty little harbour town with an adjacent bay giving reasonable shelter for anchoring overnight, overlooked by a ruined fortress set atop the headland separating the town and bay.

We’d originally planned to make it our second stop, but making our way there on the Sunday afternoon after a lunchtime stop at Mark’s Rock, motoring against a light headwind, the engine inexplicably stopped. We diverted to Gaios instead, on the basis that if we had a problem with the engine it would be easier to solicit help moored against a town quay than it would be anchored in a bay. As it happens, the engine restarted without problem and gave us no more trouble after that.

The following day, the weather turned rotten, with strong winds and inclement weather forecast overnight from the south east, so we headed back to the shelter of a small cove called Karvouno Bay near Sivota, where we were able to call ahead to the tavern there and reserve a mooring on their shore lines.

So it was finally Wednesday 27^th that we set out once again for Parga, expecting light winds from the south and hoping that the seas had calmed a little following the storm of the night before.

Out from the tranquil shelter of Karvouno we were met with a brisk wind from south of south east and an enthusiastic, rambunctious sea with a 2m swell (my best guess, I can’t really judge these things) that was still occasionally breaking. Mark judged anchoring overnight would still be feasible, so we had a log, energetic beat to Parga, covering 25 nautical miles in around 5 hours of sailing. In the last hour, approaching the bay where we planned to anchor, we were treated to a visit from some dolphins, who spent a few happy minutes playing beneath our bow wave as Amore beat south.

The wind backed as the day wore on and eased as the forecast had suggested, but although the seas had subsided quite a bit by the time we dropped our sails and turned into the bay west of Parga, there was still a bit of swell running.

We briefly considered long-lining to the rocky breakwater sheltering a small “marina” on the west side of the bay alongside a couple of other yachts that had already done the same, but on investigation, found the swell over there wasn’t much easier than it was elsewhere, so decided we’d be safer anchored somewhere in the middle of the bay with room to swing on plenty of chain. With the anchor down and Amore as settled as she was likely to get, I went for a swim. Despite the day being overcast, the water was still pleasant.

With a couple of hours to go until dusk we inflated the tender and Amanda and I headed ashore, landing in the shelter of the breakwater, and then walked the couple of kilometres up to the ruined citadel to explore, stopping at a restaurant overlooking the bay for supper on the way back. Mark stayed aboard Amore, I think more from reluctance to walk up the hill as from any concern for her safety.

The night was a bumpy one. I sat up for a couple of hours in the cockpit, watching the stars, admiring the view of the lit up castle ruins, reading and sipping a beer. The sky overhead was clear, but to the south over Lefkas clouds were boiling, unseen in the darkness until lightning began to play across them. It was an eerie, spectacular show, backlighting the castle ruins, playing out in silence, presumably too distant for the roll of thunder to reach us.

When I finally retired below to my bunk, it was for an unsettled night’s sleep. The pitching and rolling of the boat didn’t bother me; far from it, I found the cradle like rocking quite soothing. But a large boat in incessant motion is a noisy thing, the rigging creaking, unseen things stored in myriad lockers rattling, the anchor chain, running to its locker not so far from my head, groaning and something occasionally banging when the motion of the boat was just right to catch it. I spent some time trying to work out what it was but eventually gave up. 

In the morning, I realised it was the lid of the anchor locker, only loosely secured open against a stanchion by a bit of bungee that had long ago given up any pretence of elasticity.

I like sleeping at anchor. But that Wednesday night aboard Amore, it was a bit like sleeping inside a drum.

The following morning we were all up with the dawn, evidence that neither of the others had had a better night’s rest. A swell was still running into the bay despite there being next to no wind, presumably the aftermath of the distant storm of the night before.