The race is over and I think the Shipping Blues must be laid to rest. I will maintain a new blog (see links on the left) with my current adventures, although I doubt I will have anything half as interesting to write.

This site will remain active for a while yet as an archive of my trip. Thanks for reading!

 Joe

Reality bites. Right now, I am impaled on its rearmost molars, getting thoroughly masticated.

London, August 2006.

Good Things:

• Fresh underwear daily - a fine concept, and one that I feel could become popular, if the masses are informed of it.
• Internet access without having to buy a coffee - I'm sure if Nelson was asked what he missed most while at sea, he wouldn't have said "broadband internet", but oddly enough it's important. Disconnection from the world is fine up to a point, but it's great to be able to contact people and feel part of the planet again.
• People - some of whom have followed me for a year by this blog. It's better to meet them in person.

Bad Things

• Stuff - fresh underwear aside, I think a 60 litre bag can carry most things you need for life. I'm confused by my own possessions.
• Timetables, schedules, decisions - I'm better adapted to a simple "four hours on deck, four hours off" regimen.
• Losing the feeling - 48 hours back in town, and its starting to feel like I've never been away. One of these days, I'm going to find myself staring at a computer screen, while yelling down a phone and drinking my fourteenth cup of bad coffee.

I think the dreadful familiarity of it all is the worst thing. I expected to feel a huge blizzard of emotions as I arrived in Waterloo, but it never came. Everything in London seems to be caught in stasis. The shops are the same, the news headlines appear to be the same, the graffitti on the walls in my neighbourhood appear unchanged. My local pub still has a tatty newspaper cutting displayed in the window proclaiming how Thai food prevents cancer - which obviously reassures the clientele knocking back pints of Fosters and puffing Superkings by the pack.

I have a year's worth of junk mail waiting for me. My beloved brother filtered out the obvious mail shots, but I still have a couple of bin-bags' worth of absolute rubbish from banks, mobile phone companies and the taxman to sort through.

TV. What's all that about? I have watched about 20 minutes in the last year, mostly snatches of news in various hotels around the world. I now seem to have about 500 more channels than when I left (I had about a thousand then) and there is EVEN LESS worth watching. Even the news has a kind of mashed-up baby food feel to it. You don't have to chew this, it won't make you choke, even though it probably should.

And I'm crystallising my thoughts on what the year has meant to me. One thing is definitely the simplification of my life. I am happier having that set routine, and only three pairs of socks to choose from.

The other aspect is how satisfied I am by physical effort. Historically, I have been a bit of a maths geek. I have put most of my effort into academic or career achievement since I was about fifteen, working first towards my doctorate and then in my job as a trader. None of of that, absolutely nothing, has given me anywhere near as much satisfaction as working on the foredeck of a yacht in a Force 8 wind. I achieved a serenity in that I have not managed in any other activity. I think the most satisfying time of my life was in the North Pacific working with Martin and Mark on the bow of Cardiff.

Just for the record, news. We arrived in Gosport on Saturday morning. We spent most of the day deep cleaning the boat, before heading off to enjoy an evening chez Nic Allen (local boy and Cardiff crewmember). Nic is a GP, but judging by the way he refills his guests' wine glasses, he is not that bothered about preventative medicine.

Sunday was a leisurely breakfast and a long trail up to London.

Monday and Tuesday have been a return to the kind of tedium that isn't fit for a weblog that aspires to originality.

But, lo, a light on the horizon!

We still have a sail left on Cardiff, back to her home port at the end of the month for their annual Festival of the Sea - we set sail on the 23rd. Hopefully that will be worth writing about. Otherwise I will have to spice up my mundane North London existence to provide you lot with some interest.

The race is over. Cardiff Clipper crossed the finish line at Albert Dock on the River Mersey at about 12:20pm on Saturday 29th July, three hundred and fourteen days after leaving there in September last year, clocking up over thirty-six thousand miles along the way.

Phew.

It would have been nice to end on a high, storming over the finishing line first with a full press of sail. It didn't quite happen like that.

The final section from Holyhead to Liverpool was split into two sections: an overnight course to the mouth of the Mersey (the last offical race in the Round The World event) and a fun race up the river in the morning for the spectators. Both went pretty badly for us.

We started reasonably well in the official race, but as the night wore on it became clear that we had taken a bad route to the first mark. We lost wind compared to other boats, and went from something like third or fourth down to our now depressingly familiar tenth. There was hardly any wind as we rounded.

When it did freshen, it came on the nose (naturally), but that favoured the other boats who by this time had rounded the next mark, and now had the wind at their tails. We managed to finish on schedule but a poor tenth.

The race into Liverpool was a farce. It transpired later that the skippers had agreed that we would win it. The brief was very much to make it look good and to look fast. We, and several other boats, had engines on to assist. I found this buttock-clenchingly embarassing, especially as there was plenty of wind to make a decent race.

Anyway, we tacked down the Mersey, dodging ferries and commercial craft. We were then told that we were going too fast, and that we were going to arrive ahead of schedule, which would screw up the PR aspect of the day. (This is the kind of garbage that has ruled this race since Victoria.) So the boats went about and started gybing down the Mersey to waste a bit more time.

At this point, my buttocks had reached a painful level of tightness, and I went below to read a book, or something. Becs and Mary, similarly afflicted, were already down there.

Bang.

Things are not meant to go "bang" on a fun race with ten minutes to go at the end of a round the world trip.

We had gybed the boat over (intentionally, I think) without properly centring the mainsail, which crashed over and tore completely in two. This sort of possibility, I seem to recall, was mentioned on about day three of my Competent Crew course.

I was somewhat upset by this and retired to my bunk to fume for a while. Mary was utterly gutted. Having sweated her guts out to keep our sails intact for the last year, it infuriating to have such a stupid accident.

I wasn't on deck when we crossed the line.

All this seemed not so serious as we approached the lock to enter Albert Dock and saw a noisy posse of assorted Mulveys, O'Kanes and Gallaghers waving flags and a banner saying "Well Done Joe and Cardiff Crew". Not too long after, I was on shore with them, and that was just about as good a feeling as you might imagine - although I was chastised by my niece Ellen for having "yukky" hands. Damn, I should have moisturised more.

Sunday's business was leisurely: a crew get-together to have a last reminisce, and removing our stricken main. Clipper amazingly had a spare one to hand, so that was hoisted on Monday morning.

We are now in Howth, just north of Dublin, which is Conor's home port, and where we visited last year prior to race start. By way of a final slap in the face, the wind gods delivered a rattling Force 7 beat for our trip over. It was our first such wind since Jamaica, and it felt great, if annoying late in coming.

We had a full crew for the delivery over - lots of our ex-leggers showed up to lend a hand. No other boat had its own crew leaving Liverpool - the numbers were made up with trainees for the next race - and as Conor pointed out, that said something about our crew, and how we got on together.

Tomorrow, we leave for the las trip to Gosport. For me, that will feel like full circle. We turned the boat from an empty hull into a racing yacht in the Solent, and going back there will feel like the job has been done.

Thereafter, we have our PR trip to Cardiff at the end of the month for the Bank Holiday. So there still is some stuff to write about, and as long as there is I will keep the entries coming. In particular, the next few weeks are bound to generate some philosophical ruminations of the "Wossitallaboutthen?" variety, which I fully intend to bore you with.

So stay tuned: the Shipping Blues lives a little longer. 

In Holyhead, North Wales, for the shortest stopover of the trip - only a few hours to draw breath. We got in at about 1pm and we sail again soon after 6pm. Time to use a land loo, get something to eat, and satisfy my blog-hungry readers. Then a short, sharp, overnight race to Liverpool, arriving at the mouth of the Mersey about 9am. Arrival at Albert Dock about 12:30pm. Tearful reunions at about 3pm after messing about on the river for a while.

I believe my blog-hungry readers found that The Shipping Blues had disappeared for a day or two. No idea what happened. Another interesting "feature" of the recent "upgrade" perhaps. Anyway, back online.

The race from Jersey was fairly mediocre. We came eighth. We had our usual cursed light winds for most of the time. Highlights were sighting the Lizard (our first glimpse of England since leaving) and an exciting final run into Holyhead this morning when Glasgow just pipped us to the line, while we beat Jersey.

The most boring part of the trip - the long trundle up along Cardigan Bay - happened during my Mother Watch sleep. Yes, despite promises to the contrary, MW reared its ugly head again. It wasn't too difficult, though. I shared with Fiona, who had a little more inspiration to cook than I had. She produced a fine Carbonara.

In general, the food has been good: I did the victualling for this race, so I made damn sure it was good: plenty of eggs, bacon and croissants for breakfasts, fresh milk and orange juice, and no tinned meat. Luxury cruising.

There was also a fair amount of final race booze consumed, which I felt went a bit OTT. Not that anyone got inebriated, but big powerful racing yachts are not a fit place to be sipping beers more than once a week.

I got a wee bit pissed off with some of the crew: there were people saying "Yeah, last race, let's go for it" and then sitting back enjoying the ride, beer in hand. Maybe I'm up tight.

The stopover in Jersey was relaxing, perhaps too much so. The locals laid on a great prizegiving night in Gorey Castle, complete with falconry display, costumed soldiers, and a male voice choir. Oh, and an archery lesson, which I though was a brave mixture with Clipper yachties and alcohol around. Nobody died.

And tomorrow it is over. My family are en route, and really I don't care about much else just now. From Monday, I help deliver the boat back to Gosport, but from then on it's just cruising.

I'm not sure how I feel about it all just yet. I think that will require a more considered blog than a quick few lines here. I do know that I feel less sense of achievement here than I did just getting across the Pacific. But I am very glad to be back in these waters. It is a lovely fresh summer day here in Holyhead. The wind is whistling through the masts and halyards in the marina, and there are green misty hills nearby. It feels like home. These are my latitudes, much more than the Tropics.

Plus of course, the Clan Mulvey is within arms reach of me now, and that feels best of all.

In Jersey.

Good things:

• Showers
• A big bed
• Bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, COFFEE, pastries, grapefruit, FRESH orange juice, more toast, more coffee
• Indigestion pills
• Newspapers (although the world seems to have fallen apart recently)
• The "I've Made It (nearly)" feeling
• Family and friends just a spit away across a wee bit of water. (Now I know why the French call it "La Manche" - "ditch" - I could jump over it.)

Bad Things:

• Terrible race
• The "Oh, bugger, I'm back" feeling
• The typical British High Street containing Boots, Top Shop, M&S, a Yates' Wine Lodge and, worst of all, Barclays Bank - various divisions of which will be engaging me in full and frank discussions all too soon.

Should be an easy couple of days though. The boat is clean - we did the cleaning and maintenance on our oh-so-exciting motor in yesterday. I have to victual the boat on Tuesday morning, but I don't expect that to be onerous: just getting fresh goods for a three day trip up the Irish sea.

St Helier dies on Sundays. Which is fine. I have a fat Sunday newspaper and about 50 magazines to get through. The only other plan today is the prize-giving tonight. Sadly our only role will be to clap politely, utter congratulations through tightly gritted teeth, and explain to everyone else why we should win the "Artistic Merit" prize.

Now, more of that very fine coffee, I think.

At about midnight last night, Cardiff Clipper crossed its own outbound path from the UK, thereby completing a full circle around the Earth. More than crossing some random meridian, this felt like The Moment: circumnavigation.

 Eight of us – Mary, Tony, Lisa, Derek, Paddy, Becs, Nicky, and me – made it round. On the way we lost John Kelly and Phil McLaughlin to injury, and Ian Jeffers to the needs of his young family.  It would have been great to share the moment with them, but I am sure they will all sail again and hopefully we will sail some miles with them. We had a special circumnavigation tot of rum today in celebration. 

As it happens, the moment wasn’t that special: we were packing the 2.2oz spinnaker after a peel. Packing kites is not one of those “Isn’t round-the-world yachting a glamorous and exciting business?” aspects of sailing. Neither was the peel that preceded it. I fell off the pole.  This time, luckily, I had elected to wear a halyard and harness, because otherwise Fiona would think I was stupid.

Well, I’ve done peels loads of times but this time I just didn’t make it on to the pole. I don’t know what went wrong. Perhaps because the lines and pole were wet, perhaps the line holding me was overly taut, perhaps I had too much pud at dinner time. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t get a good grip. As I struggled I weakened, and finally lost my grasp, doing an upside-down screaming superman impersonation across the foredeck.

I didn’t hit anything, and they got me down safely. Needless to say, my caring crew nearly wet themselves laughing. 

Moving swiftly on…  Another significant and very happy milestone was my last Mother Watch, or at least my last full one. We shall have a full crew from Jersey to Liverpool for a three day trip, so we have decided to run half watches for Mothering. No more fourteen hour stints below decks. 

A-men. 

At least I finished on a good note: Tony and I produced a well-received Chicken Satay.  Sailing has been a little better. A day of windless bobbing (on my Mother Watch, thankfully) gave way to a spicier 20 knots yesterday. We jaunted through it nicely, with a small hiccup when the 2.2 suffered a (minor) tear on a hoist. It was quickly repaired. 

Now, however, we are back to the airless conditions that have plagued us for half the trip. Consequently, the race has been shortened again – I can’t be bothered to rant – so we are 200 miles (-ish) from the race finish, about 350 from Jersey.

In port this weekend I hope.