Bis­cay solo ad­ven­ture

For­mer soldier John Wil­lis un­der­takes an off­shore right of pas­sage: 1,400 nau­ti­cal miles solo across Bis­cay and back in a 36ft yacht

Practical Boat Owner - - Contents -

An off­shore rite of pas­sage in a 36ft yacht and a tasty fruit cake recipe

In 2015 I sailed from Guernsey to Shet­land, alone and at war with my demons, a voy­age of dis­cov­ery and re­cov­ery, re­turn­ing four-and-a-half months later, calmer but rest­less as ever (fea­tured in PBO July 2018).

In 2017 I bought Pip­pin, a Frances 34 Pilot­house, to re­place my Sadler 290 and I im­me­di­ately set off for Baltimore to see the Fast­net Rock.

I suf­fered much, learned more and re­turned to rest the win­ter, where I turned again to the un­der­stated writ­ings of boat­builder/pain­ter/sailor Jim Mot­tram, a vet­eran of Bis­cay in his diminu­tive El­iz­a­bethan 23.

I de­cided to fol­low in his foot­steps, though with­out the mod­esty and paint­ings – and with a wheel­house.

Cross­ing Bis­cay, solo or oth­er­wise in a well-pre­pared yacht should be a man­age­able deal. But here is the thing – I found it to be a HUGE deal! Yes I had sailed solo, and read off­shore ad­ven­tures with some of the great­est sailors ever, but I had never been at sea for more than 36 con­sec­u­tive hours.

As­sess­ing the chal­lenge

Myr­iad mis­for­tunes dogged my prepa­ra­tions and be­ing in what I term post-trau­matic stress dis­or­der (PTSD) re­mis­sion mode, I had to re­cal­i­brate men­tally af­ter each set back. In late May Ex-soldier, busi­ness­man and school bur­sar John Wil­lis is a Guernsey­man who knew from the age of four he was boat ob­sessed. Own­er­ship be­gan with a Dras­combe Drifter and his Sadler 290 came along in 2007. Now re­tired, he is proud cus­to­dian of Pip­pin, a Frances 34 Pilot­house. John sails with Post Trau­matic Stress Dis­or­der (PTSD). 2018, I sailed for Pen­zance to test out the boat, gain my sea legs be­fore Bis­cay and to avoid round­ing Ushant. I could also set­tle in to sea-go­ing rou­tines, such as ‘bucket and chuck it mode’, and the never-end­ing saga of what meal to have and where I had put the stuff.

Cross­ing the world’s busiest ship­ping lanes, like an over­weight jog­ger among gi­ants fast as trucks, is a chal­lenge and it was tea in the wheel­house for most of the 23-hour trip.

I de­parted for Bis­cay into a breath­less Pen­zance dawn, but af­ter nine te­dious hours of mo­tor-sail­ing, eight knots of north wind ar­rived and off Pip­pin went.

My phys­i­cal frail­ties pre­clude the solo use of spin­naker and heavy pole, but the big high cut Yan­kee and full main with pre­ven­ter were fine at 140° to the wind, with Her­cule the Hy­drovane.

Based on pre­vi­ous solo ex­pe­ri­ence, I de­cided there were four key is­sues:

• food and hy­dra­tion

• col­li­sion dan­ger

• sleep (as op­posed to rest)

• weather.

Be­ing an ex-soldier, I reac­quainted my­self with the Army 24-hour ra­tion pack, which brought fond mem­o­ries of weighty tins of chicken supreme, suet pud­ding, cheese ‘pos­sessed’, delicious tubes of con­densed milk and Aztec choco­late bars. The modern equiv­a­lent was all flat-pack and sa­chets but the grape­fruit pow­der drink had prom­ise. One pack would pro­vide all I needed for 24 hours, one less thing to think about.

My col­li­sion fear re­lated more to un­seen ob­jects than ship­ping and it was re­alised, when I saw a grey semi-sub­merged cylin­der, per­haps seven feet long and trail­ing rope. We missed it by barely 20m and I will re­mem­ber N49°23.67’ W06°22.5’ for a long time! Un­for­tu­nately I saw no ships to re­port this to for days, by which time it might have sunk or reached Bel­gium. I com­forted my­self with a slice of Mrs Wood­man’s Sus­tain­ing Ocean Cake, a recipe from sail­ing au­thor Paul Heiney’s book. It was the first cake I had made.

Ushant now lay 80 miles east, my last chance to ‘chicken out’ for home 135 miles be­yond as Pip­pin surged through big­ger waves. We weren't do­ing badly with full main and un-poled Yan­kee, touch­ing eight knots off a big ocean daddy and con­sis­tently beat­ing six knots.

I sam­pled an Army trop­i­cal fruit drink and ce­real bar while look­ing out over a grey sea, with noth­ing vis­i­ble by eye­ball or Quan­tum radar. As dark­ness closed in, I set the radar guard zone and tried to rest. I was too ex­cited to sleep. I had set the boat up to min­imise night-time deck work, so Pip­pin sailed on, snugly reefed, com­manded by Her­cule the wind­vane.

Need­ing to sleep

The seas had in­creased by dawn, big lan­guid rollers from the west but Pip­pin charged on com­fort­ably, un­per­turbed by the north-north­east wind blow­ing 14 knots (True). I am a fan of the KISS (keep it sim­ple, stupid) prin­ci­ple, so my plan was to stay well west of the ship­ping lanes from Ushant to Fin­is­terre, whilst work­ing south-south­west, to an un­de­cided des­ti­na­tion. By day two’s evening, Pip­pin had tra­versed Sea Area Sole and turned into Sea Area Fitzroy, 170 miles from the near­est head­land.

As day three dawned, I was get­ting used to ly­ing in my bunk 4,600m above the ocean floor, and to lean­ing at 35° over the cooker, legs flex­ing like shock ab­sorbers, while I but­tered slightly-burnt toast. I had al­ready done all the out­doorsy stuff, like fit­ting a sec­ond boom pre­ven­ter, check­ing all rig­ging fas­ten­ings and com­pleted cock­pit ablutions, be­fore hap­pily helm­ing for an hour. But I was tired, so sleep was the top pri­or­ity to avoid hal­lu­ci­na­tions and poor judge­ment.

The wind had in­creased to 16 knots and the seas were big­ger, but Pip­pin is a seakindly boat I thought, as the Yan­mar chor­tled across the ship­ping lanes and the wind touched 21 knots. Once in safe wa­ter, I set the radar guard zone and left Her­cule in charge, as the promised front swept in and I slept just long enough to re­store ra­tio­nal thought and morale, which blos­somed at the thought of the Span­ish coast ahead. Four Com­mon Dol­phins vis­ited and, com­fort­ably pros­trated by the con­tents of an Army ra­tion pack, I ad­mit­ted things had come on since 1974.

At 2000 on day four, I hoisted the Span­ish flag to the yardarm 35 miles from Spain, aim­ing for Ribadeo as I dodged fish­ing boats, coast­ers and pot buoys in the dark­ness. Around mid­night I spot­ted the lights on Isla Panche and Punta de la Cruz to port, and tied up in Ribadeo Ma­rina at 0330 BST, 502 miles and four days out from Pen­zance.

I had played in a rea­son­ably be­nign Bis­cay, bat­tled ex­haus­tion, avoided col­li­sion and re­dis­cov­ered the Army ra­tion pack. Now, at jour­ney’s end, I couldn’t stay awake long enough to drink my co­coa with a dram. I rested three days, caus­ing one mi­nor in­ter­na­tional in­ci­dent when I inad­ver­tently used the ladies’ fa­cil­i­ties at a posh yacht club, be­fore I turned west for At­lantic Spain and Rias de Gali­cia.

I ran west and south, an­chor­ing for days in pretty rias, shar­ing beers and tapas with a fel­low solo sailor in Ria Viveiro,

‘While rest­ing be­low I heard a slith­er­ing sound and shot on deck to see Pip­pin in the mid­dle of a foot­ball field-sized is­land of weeds’

climb­ing the mast with my Top­climber to sort out a hal­yard and help­ing a French skip­per with a caught an­chor in gusty Ria Cedeiro.

In Ria El Fer­rol I awaited a visit from my son Sam’s Span­ish mother-in-law, who had trav­elled there for work at the same time, but the weather blew up, mak­ing my an­chor­age un­ten­able and I had to leave. I caught up with her later, when I stayed with fam­ily in Moana.

So I beat a re­treat, dinghy fly­ing in the wind, be­fore an­chor­ing in peace­ful Ense­nada de Mera, across the ria from A Coruña, guarded by the Tower of Her­cules. Built by the Ro­mans in the 2nd Cen­tury AD and stand­ing 55m high, it is the old­est light­house in use to­day – though I guess the tech­nol­ogy has moved on.

Here I res­cued a young lo­cal skip­per for which he and his girl­friend re­paid me with a night to re­mem­ber dur­ing the feast of San Juan – sar­dines, tapas and wine at the very posh yacht club, beers in town, danc­ing through fire on the beach and sign­ing off with rum and cokes at 0230.

The young skip­per had been swim­ming fran­ti­cally out to sea af­ter his wind-blown in­flat­able. He was very tired, man­aged to grab it but it was un­able to get back to his yacht. He couldn't row it, as he only had one oar. I told him to lie on the dinghy and leg kick to Pip­pin, where I hauled him up.

Af­ter he had rested and warmed up, I put him into my ten­der with an engine and towed his dinghy back to his yacht where their tiny dog con­sumed my fin­gers.

I sailed down the scary Costa da Morte be­tween A Coruña and Fin­is­terre, rest­ing at an­chor with a square rig­ger off the vil­lage of Fin­is­terre, a pretty spot and scene of many a nau­ti­cal drama.

I was self-con­tained, gen­er­ally at peace, though the men­tal clouds crossed my fore­deck in pretty Muros, dur­ing the fes­ti­val of St Pe­dro. But time and a manic pro­gramme of pos­i­tive ac­tiv­ity helped and new friends pro­vided ex­tra rea­son for be­ing there. Fi­nally, 743 miles out, I took Pip­pin into Moaña Ma­rina, op­po­site Vigo, for a week ashore with fam­ily. Here, Gali­cian Cus­toms and Ex­cise caught up with me and reg­is­tered my en­try into the coun­try with smiles and friendly ban­ter.

Be­ing solo, my main fear was drag­ging the an­chor at night in a gusty ria; the wind al­ways seems louder in the rig­ging as dark­ness falls at an­chor when alone, and Pip­pin has lots of rig­ging so the hum starts at 10 knots, keens at 15, moans at 20 and I then put the pil­low over my head. For­tu­nately the Rocna has a strong grip.

MOB was al­ways a con­stant worry and I tried hard not to be slack about ty­ing on. As if to em­pha­size the point, I re­ceived a DSC call off Coruña about a MOB sit­u­a­tion. The lo­ca­tion was close, so I di­verted to­wards it, as did half a dozen other yachts but noth­ing was found.

Home­ward bound

At the end of July, I turned Pip­pin’s bowsprit north and be­gan the up­hill climb for home, clutch­ing a five-day fore­cast from Pas­ and de­ter­mined to do it in one hop. I had an ex­cel­lent router aboard and the in­ter­net con­tin­ued to work

sur­pris­ingly far out to sea – for me an es­sen­tial aid to sail­ing and morale.

It felt up­hill from Vigo be­cause it was a con­stant fight to gain ground against the stub­bornly pre­vail­ing north winds. As I looked back at Moaña in the early morn­ing light, I saw the beauty of Ria Vigo as if for the first time and a pod of dol­phins cruised lazily across Pip­pin’s bows, cue more empty film and much cussing.

My plan crashed when I could barely make head­way north. I per­se­vered for two hours be­fore mo­tor sail­ing. I de­cided to make sail­ing a pri­or­ity over gain­ing ground and off we went. As if to en­cour­age me, a whale slapped its fluke and arched its back: as long as Pip­pin, awe­some. As the af­ter­noon closed, I an­chored in sand at Ense­nada de San Fran­cisco, in sight of Fin­is­terre, ser­e­naded by the squeals of chil­dren on the beach and watched by the crews of a dozen yachts pre­tend­ing not to watch. I had won too few miles, burned two gal­lons of diesel and al­lowed dis­ap­point­ment to set in, but I had en­joyed a blue sky sail and a per­fect an­chor­age.

Next morn­ing started well when I killed two flies that had driven me qui­etly in­sane in my lit­tle cabin, as Pip­pin sailed to­wards the open ocean.

Wizened old fish­er­men in tiny do­rys bobbed all around up to a mile from shore, their con­cen­tra­tion ab­so­lute, their con­tent­ment pal­pa­ble. At the ria’s mouth in­shore trawlers scur­ried, busily check­ing pots. Heaven is made of many things, es­pe­cially sail­ing at 6.7 knots with ba­con sand­wiches, though Hell threw in a bank of thick fog off Cape Fin­is­terre. It was sur­real sail­ing to­wards one of the world’s scari­est capes in poor vis­i­bil­ity, munch­ing ba­con sarnies with Her­cule the wind vane in charge. Know­ing tired­ness would be an is­sue, I had pinned a menu plan up in the gal­ley and saved my last Army ra­tion pack for bad weather, though I couldn’t find it.

I knew the south-west wind wouldn’t last, so my strate­gic plan had only two words on it – ‘sail north’ – so that’s what I did as Pip­pin ran 130° to the wind at a se­date four knots guided by Her­cule. Five miles off Fin­is­terre in fog, I could hear noth­ing but my tin­ni­tus and wor­ried skip­pers on Bri­tish yachts call­ing each other.

Un­per­turbed, a pod of dol­phins came for cof­fee and stayed awhile in the dy­ing south-west breeze, as Pip­pin slowed to a sail flap­ping walk, and I re­minded my­self I had to re­lax, go with the flow. No dead­line meant 2.5 knots was just fine, us­ing the engine to help was not fail­ure, ev­ery inch north was a tri­umph.

Fish­ing boats passed ei­ther side of me, un­seen throb­bing en­gines, coloured blobs on my radar screen, the loud­est sound Pip­pin’s gen­tle wake and the scrap­ing of sheets on wire. Fi­nally I set Pip­pin north on the veer­ing wind, as the fog be­gan to lift re­veal­ing the dark mass of the Costa da Morte to star­board, as gan­nets dive bombed a shoal, dol­phins came to check out Pip­pin’s new bow wave and the enor­mous boom of a ship’s fog horn car­ried across from out to sea.

As the af­ter­noon closed the wind re­mained from the south and west close in­shore, al­beit progress at times was a crawl. At Cabo la Boltra, bask­ing in sun­shine, the last morsel of Mrs Wood­man’s fruit cake, slipped down a treat with half a pint of tea.

The dol­drums

Pretty Ca­mari­nas lay astern as Pip­pin con­tin­ued at a stately three knots in the dy­ing evening breeze and mist re­duced Spain to a smudge be­fore dark­ness could steal it, as I bat­tled to work north. It helped to think that Ho­ra­tio Horn­blower would have strug­gled more in his square rig­ger as Spain lay dis­ap­point­ingly close off the star­board beam, while Pip­pin ran par­al­lel to the coast for the night. Still it was a good sail and I man­aged a sleep, though a review of my red po­si­tion marks on the chart, ran­domly scat­tered, spoke of the blood, sweat and tears of the pre­vi­ous 24 hours. It was as if I had lost a day and I

felt doomed to re­main stuck in Bis­cay for eter­nity with the shad­ows of the en­tire Span­ish fish­ing fleet out to say farewell.

Grey clouds and miz­zle opened day two as the wind shifted east of north, all three knots of it, so on went the lit­tle diesel with an oily chuckle. A rain squall set off the radar alarm, dol­phins ap­peared, and with lit­tle sail­ing to think about I de­lib­er­ated on the menu choice for the day. It’s im­por­tant to es­tab­lish a rou­tine of tasks and ac­tiv­i­ties to main­tain morale. I de­cided on a fresh shirt, shave and con­sid­er­ing op­tions for round­ing Ushant – and how to kill the cabin fly that was driv­ing me crazy.

By cof­fee time the wind was north­north­east 15 knots, and Pip­pin flew though not re­ally where I wanted to go. Fi­nally I was able to snug down head­ing north-east for the night. I make light of what had been un­til then a hugely frus­trat­ing strug­gle to get north.

At 0430, day three, I sleep­ily took ad­van­tage of a wind shift and got Pip­pin do­ing what she does best and in the right di­rec­tion, east of the ship­ping lanes. Now I had re­ally crossed the start line and, with few ves­sels about, I slept.

Feel­ing pos­i­tive, I burst into the sunny cock­pit later with a mug of tea and the para­pher­na­lia for a strip wash, a sat­is­fy­ing if not pretty event. Pip­pin dug down her shoul­der in the gen­eral di­rec­tion of Ushant.

Look­ing at the set of the sails, it was tempt­ing to do a few tweaks in pur­suit of speed as I hoped the wind would re­main this way for a day or two. The wind built dur­ing the morn­ing, teas­ing white foam off wave tops as Pip­pin crashed on, guided by that tire­less soldier, Her­cule, a good in­di­ca­tor of the wind’s move­ments. I kept a hand-bear­ing com­pass by my bed to check the course from my sleep­ing bag.

By af­ter­noon Spain lay only 105 miles astern, but the sky was blue, the sun shone and I had just seen two whales slap their tail flukes, as I topped up the fuel tank. It is frus­trat­ing when there is noth­ing you can do and the wind has gone, your des­ti­na­tion far over the hori­zon and you are knack­ered. It is time then to put trust in ma­chin­ery and elec­tron­ics and reach for a good book, as I did for the next 12 hours.

At such times I pon­der things like fuel con­sump­tion, for I didn’t carry enough to get home un­der engine; I was glad I had la­bo­ri­ously filled three ex­tra cans at a garage three quar­ters of a mile away while in Moaña.

A change in the boat’s at­ti­tude sent me up to see the wind was more south and west, Her­cule took charge point­ing Pip­pin for that busy cor­ner called Oues­sant (Ushant). Progress was pleas­ingly good, so time for main­te­nance and an hour with my head up the engine and down in the bilges; a half litre of oil for the old Yan­mar and fresh diesel in the tank, both wise pre­cau­tions with the threat of bad weather.

Evening closed to the sound of rasp­ing sheets, hiss­ing wake and gently creak­ing boom, the wind 125° off the port quar­ter.

Day four be­gan wet and with in­suf­fi­cient wind to make way un­der sail, as I mulled over plans for round­ing Ushant de­cid­ing to take the Pas­sage de Fromveur along the east side of Isle de Oues­sant, a rock in­hab­ited by 800 hardy souls and the indige­nous sheep. Around 50,000 ships a year pass by Ushant, so it isn’t sur­pris­ing there has been many a wreck, the most fa­mous be­ing the steamship Drum­mond Cas­tle, which sank in 1896 with the loss 243 souls.

The wind had shifted help­fully to the south-west, push­ing Pip­pin on to­wards Ushant as Pip­pin slipped into day five with Brest, a pos­si­ble stag­ing post, 70 miles north-east. It be­came clear that I should ar­rive at the Pas­sage de Fromveur at around Brest LW, per­fect, so I aban­doned plans to stop.

Weedy ob­struc­tion

Yes I was tired and the weather would turn, but I had achieved some more sleep so was func­tion­ing OK – no hal­lu­ci­na­tions, sea­sick­ness or de­hy­dra­tion I thought, as Pip­pin pro­gressed ag­o­nis­ingly slowly, so time for the Yan­mar again. By early af­ter­noon Pip­pin was sail­ing slowly against the tide and on into a lovely evening as the Brit­tany coast slipped past to star­board. While rest­ing be­low, nose stuck in a book, radar alarm on, I heard a slith­er­ing sound down the hull sides and shot on deck to see Pip­pin amid a foot­ball field sized is­land of weed, ten­drils streamed from the rud­der and wind vane steer­ing blade, which I couldn’t shift.

The French Coast Guard warned re­peat­edly of strong winds, but I was, un­usu­ally, poorly pre­pared as dark­ness set in, and I went to tuck in the new boat­yard-in­stalled third reef, for the first time ever, and open the stay­sail. The reef­ing pennant jammed in­side the boom and disconnected from the boom end, leav­ing me un­able to raise the main sail, so with much cussing, I strapped the sail to the boom, set the au­topi­lot and mo­tor­sailed into the dark­ness, as sail­ing speed had dropped with­out the big main sail.

Then the au­topi­lot went AWOL (due to an un­der­sized re­vers­ing pump). I was too tired to steer home but re­mem­bered I steered suc­cess­fully with the Hy­drovane while mo­tor-sail­ing slowly across the Celtic Sea in 2017, and so it did again to

my re­lief, un­til the wind be­gan to build and Pip­pin con­tin­ued hap­pily un­der the Yan­kee. The mo­tion was get­ting lively, I noted, perched on my pi­lot seat in the wheel­house to up­date my log, when Pip­pin dipped sharply to port and the seat I had fit­ted col­lapsed, tak­ing me with it.

High fiv­ing the sky

By now there was a cap full of wind, but even so I was sur­prised by the size and fe­roc­ity of the ris­ing seas. Run­ning be­fore a strong wind, now against the tide and hav­ing built up strength out in the At­lantic, the waves charged un­hin­dered up the English Chan­nel, per­haps ac­cel­er­at­ing be­tween Ushant and pos­si­bly ric­o­chet­ing off the Brit­tany coast over shal­low wa­ter. As time went on, the tops of the big­ger ones curled over and col­lapsed in a hiss­ing tor­rent of foam, slam­ming hard up against Pip­pin, slew­ing her off course and blast­ing spray and wa­ter into the cock­pit. Down in the cabin, where I was work­ing up an ap­petite for din­ner with a DCI Banks story, it seemed much less dra­matic.

It was a soldier’s wind, south-west hard up Pip­pin’s chuff and blow­ing hard enough to have some fun. It ranged be­tween 18 and 27 knots with gusts to 35. The heavy rain her­alded the pas­sage of the front, a sen­si­ble time to be be­low pre­par­ing beef stew with dumplings. I got some din­ner and rest, but no sleep so four hours be­fore dawn of day six, I dressed in my off­shore foul-weather gear and har­ness, grabbed a bot­tle of wa­ter and choco­late and headed into the cock­pit where I strapped on. Op­ti­misti­cally I brought my book in a sand­wich bag. Guernsey isn’t so big you can’t miss it, and I didn’t want to be trapped against a lee shore, so I took over from Her­cule, guid­ing Pip­pin up and down some truly im­pres­sive waves. Pip­pin has a hull speed of around 7.4 knots – yet she clocked 13.4 knots off the back of at least one big daddy, with just a Yan­kee sail raised, which had her de­mented skip­per whoop­ing like an id­iot, high fiv­ing the sky in the pre-dawn rain.

For six hours I stood at the wheel, gulp­ing wa­ter, munch­ing choco­late whilst try­ing to keep Pip­pin straight and true to the waves, with oc­ca­sional lapses as a big daddy slammed against a quar­ter slew­ing Pip­pin into a near broach, worse sea con­di­tions than I had en­coun­tered in her pre­vi­ously. The waves eased as Pip­pin closed St Martin’s Point on the south-east tip of Guernsey, and a P&O cruise ship changed course to pass close by. I could imag­ine the commentary… ‘and out to star­board you will see some id­iot in a lit­tle yacht’, though they couldn’t see the grin on said id­iot’s face or sense the pride in his breast. I knew I had al­most ar­rived, when I saw the first bob­ber and its baby slide un­com­fort­ably close to star­board.

The tide was per­fect to en­ter the ma­rina at 0941 on 28 July with just an hour to spare though only sea gulls were there to ap­plaud. Pip­pin had un­com­plain­ingly taken me 1,400 nau­ti­cal miles solo across Bis­cay and back, and up and down the Span­ish At­lantic coast, but at that mo­ment I did not know whether to laugh or cry – I was a jumble of ex­haus­tion and emo­tion af­ter six days out at sea and lit­tle sleep.

As I walked down the pon­toon to meet the First Mate on wob­bly legs, I found my­self look­ing at boats, won­der­ing whether I would be happy to have gone through what we just had in them: “Nah, not that one, or that. Maybe that one. Pip­pin will do me just fine, thank you”.

‘Pip­pin clocked 13.4 knots off the back of one big daddy, which had her de­mented skip­per whoop­ing like an id­iot and high fiv­ing the sky’

About Au­thor

ABOVE John Wil­lis aloft in Cedeira LEFT Skip­per’s pit

Pip­pin greets a rough dawn on Bis­cay

The Tower of Her­cules, the im­pres­sive an­cient Ro­man light­house at La Coruña, Gali­cia

House dec­o­rated for a fes­ti­val at Muros

Bis­cay dol­phins

John and Pip­pin’s route across the Bay of Bis­cay and back

Pip­pin, John Wil­lis’s Frances 34 Pilot­house yacht an­chored at Fin­is­terre

TOP Pre­par­ing break­fast at sea ABOVE John and Pip­pin leav­ing Viveiro

ABOVE St Peter Port, Guernsey RIGHT A Coruña

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