Monty B goes all French TV, ooh la la

Can't remember whether this made it onto my blog at the time, and am too shoddy to bother checking.

Way back at the end of August (a lot has happened since then), we were chartered by a French TV company, Canal 5, who were filming for their prime time travel show, Echappees Belles.

The day had kicked off with air in the fuel causing numerous break-downs on our way to the rendezvous point in Herceg Novi. Completely stressful as we hadn't left any time for arsing around and were late to pick them up - though luckily, they were also late so thankfully it didn't cause any massive dramas. We managed to get ourselves onto the tiny fuel dock in Herceg Novi (not really big enough for yachts our size) and filled up to try to stave off any further air in fuel worries (we were low which was why we were pulling air through).

We headed out of the bay into what would have been a surprising amount of swell, had it not been for the immense storm clouds out on the NW Adriatic. We would not usually have headed out with what appeared to be a nasty looking bit of weather headed our way, but hey ho, we were on telly!

We were heading for a well known dive spot, Blue Caves, where on a sunny day, the light refracts from inside a sea cave turning the entire cave and water a trippy deep blue. But not on a day like this, with the wind building and the sea turning an angry green grey. The film crew were undeterred and had already set up on deck before leaving harbour so started filming our journey. They were unexpectedly friendly and laid-back, loved the dogs and we started to enjoy ourselves. It was SO COOL! The rather suave and friendly (womaniser?) organiser type started to get sea-sick within the first 15 minutes (there is always one on a day like that) so I stuck him on the helm.

On arriving at Blue Caves, a small dive RIB picked up the film crew and we then spent an hour circling, much to close to a viscious rocky shoreline, whilst the wind picked up and a storm started to brew further up the coast. Mmmm.

The dive boat eventually emerged from the caves but the director wanted to shoot footage of the presenter, Sophie, and our mate Jack from Black Mountain (adventure travel) in the water by the boat. This was becoming increasingly dangerous, particularly for Sophie, who was clearly exhausted and kept disappearing underwater as waves covered her face. The final straw as I anxiously watched the fast approaching vile-looking clouds was lightning forking down into the entrance of the bay, in the direction we were having to head. We insisted that they got back on the boat and a good job too as by this time they were struggling to get out of the water, with the waves causing the stern to slam and their heavy dive gear weighing them down.

We tore off into the waves but no sooner had we got underway, we were hailed by the dive RIB which was struggling against the conditions so we picked them up, got them on board and towed their RIB behind us. All exciting stuff.

Unfortunately, the camera gear and less hardy amongst the crew were put below decks, the organiser guy being flat out seasick in the saloon (his choice). So none of this was filmed. And it would have made great TV.

This is the TV programme which was screened last week in France. We are on the first 5 mins or so but even though the programme is in French, it is worth a skim through if just for the footage of this incredible country that we live in, particularly the Boka Kotorska which features in the first 10 mins or so. See http://www.france5.fr/echappees-belles/emission/montenegro/video.html

Anyway, to cut a long story short, we made it back into the bay, catching only the edge of the storm which had taken the familiar route into the bay and across the Orjen mountains rather than tracking the coast. So it was exhiliarating without being frightening, we were aware of the risks and took account of them without the situation feeling remotely overwhelming. Which made me realise that we have come a long way since the first few months on the boat where we encountered situations which were way beyond our experience and thus frightening. This was, of course, a minor situation compared to those incidents back in 2007 but all the same, we quite rightly have a lot more confidence now and it was useful to be put into a more demanding situation than usual.

Wow! This is hardcore.

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Wow, what a walk! We headed off on the road which tracks the southern and western sides of Durmitor NP and parked up near to the bottom of the peak of Stozica as there was snow on the road ahead.

We walked down into the silent, vast U-shaped valley with steep, pine-covered sides giving way to breathtakingly steep cliffs which jutted out, above the clouds. The path ran beside a deep green, menacing glacial lake which shuddered and turned black with the gusts of icy wind that blasted down from the snowy mountain tops.

We walked separately, over rough, tussocky ground, enjoying the emptiness.

The hike along the valley soon turned from a gradual incline to a fair old climb, and with the altitude came increasingly thick snow underfoot. The skies had been darkening since we had begun and as we reached around 1800 metres, we could see swirling snow-clouds heading our way. The sleet gave way to full-on snow and everything around us started to disappear into the murk. Usually, in the depths of the Montenegrin wilderness, you would be getting a bit worried at this point. But it was impossible to get lost as the landscape was open, the valley ran in a straight line and we had compasses. Barring injury (like a sprained ankle!), we were fine. So we just gritted teeth and trudged onwards and upwards towards the col (Sedlo) where it joined up with the road at 1908 metres.

And we made it. And it was incredible – the views from either side of the col were incredible. Thunder rumbled distantly and we sat on our gloves, on a snow-covered bench and hastily ate our sarnies and my homemade cake.

Then being total chickens (or sensible sailors), we walked the snow-bound, winding road all the way back down. Just in case.

Fantasy life aboard a yacht

When I’m away from Monty B, I spend a lot of time day-dreaming about what I could be doing if I was on the boat. These day dreams usually involve heroic passages in unexplored waters, helming the boat with a grin on my face through heavy seas or laughing heartily with some welcoming locals as I buy sumptious fresh mangos. They don’t normally involve sitting with my head in my hands, eyes cast skyward whilst teaming rain turns the hatches ablur, or shouting “Fking god almighty” as the shower bilge pump decides not to work whilst you’re soaking wet and cold, dressed only in a damp towel, or feeling claustrophobic when someone stands too close to you in the galley. That desire to go adventuring, to be brave, seems to gnaw away at me a hell of a lot more when I am not on the boat.

But fantasy may become reality this spring, April to be exact, when we plan to depart our berth in Tivat and head south. The idea being we can spend April and some of May doing some much needed cruising, rid us of the Bogeyman that is the passage from Greece to Montenegro, pick up spares in Greece and try to get some springtime rays a little earlier in the season than they arrive in Montenegro.

And adventures abound. I need adventures. That’s what it’s all about, is it not? Even if they scare you witless.

Honeymoon tales 1 - Smoking Gun

The day before yesterday kicked off with breakfast burritos, which had come to mind whilst I was day-dreaming about a Coffee Shop in the Jordaan district of Amsterdam, which I frequented a decade ago. Large mugs of coffee and a smoke to start the day, followed by huge veggie breakfast burritos. It was heaven. Don't know why I'm daydreaming about Amsterdam....mmm well, maybe I do..... it must be the rain. What else do you do on a day like this, eh?

Anyway, what WE do on a day like this, is get our wet weather gear on and go for a short hike. Well, more of a walk really as I'm resting my (slightly) sprained ankle, got whilst attempting to copy Louis' athletic 4-legged leap over a stream (ankle twisted on crappy landing and I ended up collapsed in the mud). Four legs good, two legs bad in this case. Plus he's younger than me. And a dog. Which is probably the crucial bit of information that my over-stimulated brain failed to register when I impulsively followed him.

So we went for wet walk around Crno Jezero (Black Lake) which, though tame for a Montenegrin walk, was still beautiful with the cloud occasionally giving way to a mountain view and mists rising from the pine forests. There was a few minutes of adrenalin when I thought I'd seen a big, black/grey, dog-like animal in the woods and Mollie had legged off in its direction. The previous evening we'd had dinner and lots of booze around the house of a local man, Mina, and his family. During the journey to his house, he stopped off to buy a crate of beer and whilst putting it in the back of his aging Volvo, he asked Tim to budge up as he happened to be sitting on his rifle. Amongst other things that Mina "needed his rifle for", were killing foxes and wolves. We'd seen wolf icons on our Durmitor map but assumed they were as out of date as the cartography - but apparently not. This shored up my suspected wolf-kill find last week, where I disturbed a gang of huge ravens gorging on what had been a sheep, only identifiable by the bloody horns lying on the path and a hairy hoof. The rest of its body had been ripped to shreds, pulled apart and strewn about in what looked like a violent attack. This was quite a shocking sight and slightly unnerving as I was alone, on my way into town to get some bread, which involved walking through part of the forest. The city dweller element in me cannot help but find forests eerie, dark places full of mysterious, watching eyes darting behind trees when you look too hard. It is all part of the fun, of course.

Anyhow, back to the original tale. After a few nervous minutes of rounding up our uber-independent hounds, I had managed to talk myself out of seeing anything at all. Then, from the trees ran a large, black/grey dog-like thing which…..wait for it…..was, in fact, a dog. We did see a pretty cool eagle the other day though.

Balkan Extremes

Despite the not bad weather we were graced with in England, we were pretty surprised to get out of the taxi back in Montenegro (driver stinking of booze but had a vehicle large enough to fit us and our windshield, more of later) to find the air temperature up in the high 20’s and the sun laughing at my attire of hooded top, coat, scarf, jeans, boots. Hooray! Farewell to autumnal musings; here was summer again.

We’d only been back on the boat a few days when a contingent of bicycling Nottinghamites paid a visit. Dennis, Nez and Ian were on the final leg of their month long trip which had taken them from Bulgaria to gentle, friendly Macedonia, through hard-core Albania and finishing with the mountain marathon that is Montenegro. Had we not just been back to Nottingham for 2 weeks, it would have been utterly odd to have them on our boat but as things were, it felt completely normal to be with such like-minded souls. They were a lovely bunch of lads and welcome to return anytime.

However, their arrival coincided with a distinct change in the weather and we waved them off into heavy rain, falling temperatures and building winds the following afternoon. And then the weather went shit.

From mid to upper 20’s, the temperatures descended into the boat madness zone of, at best 10 degrees, at worst 2 degrees C! And it rained. And rained. After the first week, I held my head in my hands one grim morning pondering why I had reneged on my unequivocal statement last spring that I “would never do another Montenegrin winter”. Free marina berth and free offers of luxurious on-shore accommodation had swung it, I guess. But it’s all very well making those decisions on a sultry June afternoon. The crying wind, rolling black clouds and rain which only relents long enough for you to tie up your boot laces and open the companionway, no longer feature in your carefree Montenegrin dream.

So, what do you do when the going gets tough? You agree to go white-water rafting in the mountain wilderness of northern Montenegro. So a mixed bag of ages, nationalities and backgrounds from a variety of craft moored in Porto Montenegro, piled into a van, taking along two dogs for entertainment (and much needed warmth).

And to cut a long story short, it was a crazy thing to do. This began to hit home a little more as within two hours of leaving, what little we could see of the mountains (shrouded in thick mist and freezing rain) were white with snow. Not usual at this time of year, it has to be said. We descended into the high-sided canyon cut by the Piva River which looked oddly wide and full (Pluzine Rijeka) and didn’t see another vehicle for an hour despite the road being good. The reason for strange lake/river was revealed further along the road when we crossed a 220 metre damn, stopping to look at the breathtaking drop that was the canyon proper with its natural, mineral-green river, racing along far beneath us. At the confluence of the Piva and the Tara rivers, we arrived the Montenegro/Bosnia border crossing. It was 4 degrees C. The border guard smirked, “You go rafting??” then boomed with laughter. We now understand why.

The camp was situated on the banks of the glacial-looking Tara River, flanked by near vertical canyon sides, reaching at its deepest, 1200 metres. The wooden cabins had been built for summer climes and we slept fully dressed despite the heater, but they were quite cute and sent me into a romantic spin about my much-dreamed about/desired “wooden A-frame house in the mountains” fantasy. We had an evening of drinking around a big covered firepit which was top fun, despite the strange (but usual) interactions or lack of interaction with the local guides. In typical Montenegrin fashion, they chain-smoked, looked miserable and spent lots of time texting on their mobile phones.

The next day dawned even fouler than the last. It was 1 degree outside and trying to snow. Surely they wouldn’t take us out in this, we all secretly prayed. But they did. We donned the usual wet-suit, sodden and already freezing cold wet-boots, there were no gloves – and we piled in the back of the Land Rover. Already, shaking with cold and with one stop for a member of our crew to be sick (hangover – and it wasn’t me! Or Tim), we travelled yet further into and down into the Tara canyon. It is a far more remote and desolate place than the postcards suggest, particularly with snow edging the track.

Holding the icy metal paddle was a job in itself but once we got going, I thought we would warm up. But the needles of iced rain blew into our faces relentlessly, turning to snow blizzards less than 200 metres above our heads. We paddled, we shivered, we shook – the question “are we nearly there yet?” took on a resonance like never before. What should have been one of the most spectacular trips of our lives (and it would be if the weather was clement), became one of the most arduous. We couldn’t wait for it to be over.

To add insult to injury, the konoba (bar) at the end of our endeavour was closed and our bags had not been dropped off. So we waited, outside, for more than 15 minutes, now getting seriously chilled, before we could change (in full view of everyone, outside) into our dry clothes. No towels, no fire, no hot drinks. It was all very poor, to be honest. And potentially dangerous.

When we take people out sailing, we go to great lengths to make sure that everyone is having a great time. If the weather isn’t good (and we are talking a bit of rain here), we don’t go out, simple as that. We lose money. But we would rather do that than have our clients not enjoy themselves – let alone put them through actually physical pain. This trip should not have gone ahead in those conditions – the camp were on one hand, greedy, taking money when they knew there was no way that anyone could enjoy rafting in near-freezing temperatures – and it was potentially dangerous should anything untoward had happened and we’d had to stay outside for any longer than we did.

This is a real shame as the camp itself is potentially fantastic and we would like to be able to recommend it to people and go again ourselves – but are loathe to do so now under the circumstances. As such, I am not putting a link on here as I don’t want them to have bad publicity – or good at the moment.

Mam Tor Wedding continued

We have a long winter ahead so I’ll stop beating myself up about a) putting up photos, b) editing the video and c) completing the tale. All of this will be done in time. For now, I’m going to continue my usual bletherings.

Our Mam Tor Wedding

Grrr, I knew I’d do this. Leave it sufficiently long before writing that I am already losing the warming buzz and remnant glow that accompanies those times when you feel completely enveloped in the loving arms of those whom you care for and those that care for you. Or to put more simply, not write about our dreamy wedding a little sooner.

Now, I’m not one of those lasses that has spent her life daydreaming about that special day, waiting for that perfect moment. Quite on the contrary; I’ve never been interested in marriage. It all seemed like, to put it politely, a load of contrived bollocks. But something in me made me want to marry Tim, a romantic whim if you will, an expression of love. So, on 26 September 2009 we stood a’top Mam Tor and said “I do” and it, unexpectedly, became a momentous occasion for both of us which did actually really mean something. I think most people who were there would be in agreement with that.

In a nutshell, because the detail is becoming less and less relevant as the weeks pass, these are the bits which stick in my mind:

Monday 21 Sept, 5 days to go – After arriving back in the UK the evening before (discussing marquee décor over a pint of real ale in one of our favourite pubs then a massive curry), met with those of our mates who were going to help us make this whole thing work. They made us feel much better and I started to think this thing was really going to work. Oh, and we bought our rings.

Tuesday 22 Sept, 4 days to go – Met with my mother to choose some material to make my wedding skirt, measured up for skirt, came to agreement (surprisingly) easily about what could and couldn’t be conjured up in the timescale and mum skills. Tried on corset – looked amazing but I couldn’t breath and went into a huge panic about how I was going to make it up Mam Tor/get over stiles/dance/eat/drink/sit without my face disappearing into my cleavage. Decided it was a terrible mistake. (postscript: on the day I didn’t lace it up properly so could do all of the above).

Wednesday 23 Sept, 3 days to go – Wrote the ceremony script with Tim. Spent a lot of time on the internet hiring vans which we realised we needed. Met a worried Tim in town and picked out tie colour and reassured him on choice of shirt (he just couldn’t get his head around how his neck size was all they needed).

Thursday 24 Sept, 2 days to go – Tim went on his stag do at 9am (under strict instruction to meet me, in a fit state, at 1pm Friday in Edale). They finished around 5am. I am saying no more other than tank driving (in a pink tutu), an ostrich costume, Carry on up the Khyber at the Screen Room, lots of drinking, the conga, human pyramids, pile-ons, lots of drinking, male nudity, chest injuries, lots of bruises (and this is only what I’ve gleaned from the evidence). I, on the other hand, was in a state of dull worry about the logistics of the following 24 hours – which was a real shame as some of my pals had put on a low-key non-hen eve and I just wasn’t myself (though “myself” would have ended up piling into town and getting into a similar state as the groom so probably a good thing all round). My, I am getting sensible in me owd age.

Friday 25 Sept, 1 day to go – Arrived at Whitmore Lea Farm, our site for the weekend, with some pals to find the marquee company (Premier Event Marquees, from Goole) telling us that they wouldn’t erect the marquee on that site because the grass was too long, there were sheep in the field, it was too uneven. Gob-smacked, utterly shocked but keeping my head, we found them two alternative sites (without sheep, long grass and flat enough to have static caravans on one of them). They still wouldn’t do it – they had just cleaned their marquees for the winter they told us and “shouldn’t even be doing this job”. They also told me that their boss thought I was “dodgy” and said that even if they chose to put up the marquees, they would need £500 off me there and then in cash as a security deposit. Charming. And nigh impossible.

Not having mobile phone reception in the entire valley was not helping matters, and after running back and forth from the farmhouse to make phone calls home to Tim, after 2 hours of trying to work with the marquee guys, they finally left saying how terrible they felt about the situation (they later told their boss that I was “threatening and abusive”). Lovely.

So, it was now 24 hours before our wedding party and we had nothing. No marquee, no furniture. Then an amazing 6 hours unfolded, sparked off by an incredible and highly capable friend who took the parish mag by the horns and rang around all the movers and the shakers in Edale village (herself from a village knew that something could be done; myself, from suburban Birmingham, just stood there dumbstruck). Within the hour, the farmer, his wife and their two mates plus us were running about all over the place and by 4pm had: 7 mini marquees from the vicar, enough trestle tables from the village hall, 100 chairs from the horticultural society. And the lads finally turned up, plus a van load of light and sound gear plus more tarps than you could shake a sheep-shitty stick at.

By nightfall, the stunning but previously empty field was filled with a fairly large, fairly stable structure made up of numerous marquees gaffer-taped together.

I found my mum, drank whisky and we finished my skirt. Then had “dinner with the mums” and a lacklustre bridegroom trying his hardest not to look stupidly hungover.

Oh, and Tim's kilt arrived.

Saturday 26 Sept, the day – Awoke to the kind of day that, had I ever had romantic dreams about getting wed, I would have chosen. Autumn colours on the trees, falling and swirling on the breeze, carpets of crisp yellows and russets on the paths, a deep blue almost cloudless sky and warmth in the sun. The gamble to get married on top of one of the coldest, windiest, cloudiest, wettest places in England looked like it might just pay off.

Arrived on site to find a mini-town had grown overnight in our field: kids playing on a big trampoline and being transported around in a tractor’s scooper by the farmer, tables set up and already being laid out for dinner, the beginnings of a spectacular veggie buffet were arriving, lots of sound and lighting gear, an extravagant toilet set-up being dug and built at the far end of the field and lots of tents. We did what we could then rushed back to Edale to get changed.

There was Tim, trying on half his kit for the first time and getting in a mess. Me, the only bride in history not to have time to wash her hair, who having forced down beans on toast (not really the best food for a woman about to wear a corset but mother made it for me and I was almost passing out through lack of food and too much emotion), got stuck into the champagne with my two “ladies” and mum and suddenly cheered up – and started enjoying myself for the first time in a lot of hours.

Then we both managed to get up the hill in an unplanned fashion – plan was that Tim was meant to be one of the first up and I would follow so I didn’t have the grand entrance thing going on. However, surprise surprise, we were late so Tim missed his walking party and got a lift half way up – and I was even later – so ended up being the last one up there unintentionally – but it kind of worked in the end.

Then it all becomes a big blur (that’ll be the champagne I guess).

However, I will try to reconstruct the rest in my next post.

The photos say the rest – as does this enormous list of thank yous:

Michelle and David: for lending us their lodge in the mountains of Monte for our honeymoon

Jes: Photography and camera

Everyone who provided food for the magnificent buffet

Katie's mum: seamstress, flowers, food, speech and being calm at the right moments

Tim's mum: organising food, dancing

Katie's step dad: ironing groom's shirt, getting groom up the hill, providing shower gel and shaving equipment 1 hour before the wedding

Gus and Sara: Katie's ladies, giving her the bottle to get up the hill, wedding cake (gus)

Michelle and David: for lending us their lodge in the mountains of Monte for our honeymoon

Jes: Photography and camera

Malachi and Harris: filming of ceremony and party

Chan: electrics, sound, light, materials, resourcefulness

Andy and Rhiannan: bar, enthusiasm, marquees

Chan, Andy, Andy, Gareth: Planning meeting earlier in week. As the crisis unfolded, their professionalism, resourcefulness, materials, enthusiasm and experience inspired confidence in the eventual result. Once we had ditched the marquee company and started doing things for ourselves, there was never any doubt of the result.

Gareth and Elaine: transporting furniture to and from villagers

Vanessa: tea tent, decor, rallying of troops on Sat morning, provider of great lights.

Boy's team: Nat, Andy, Mal, other Andy and Tom for putting up the village marquees without fuss.

Andy Nurse: speech, stag do, constant support and ever-present assistance to groom

Jo and Cath: table decor, crisis management post-marquee disaster, resourcefulness at critical point - in two hours the wedding rose out of the ashes thanks to them

Farmers and villagers: advice, hospitality, resources - we won't forget your generosity

Cath and Andy: keeping the fizz on ice until the toasts

Elaine P: brilliant children's entertainment, book her in London for your parties: http://www.ministryofgiggles.co.uk/

Egg and Moll: toilets that even the locals were impressed by

Kim: wood collection and transportation

Ben Caulfield: advice, site rec and toilets

DJs: George, Gareth, Andy, Ol, Chan, Chris M

Ziggy: "that speech"

Clean up team: Chris and Jo, Elaine, Eleanor, Gareth, Andy, Rhiannan, Kim, Ol, Chan, Nurses.

Mum & Richard, Mum & Steve, Dad & Sally: cash!

Wedding ceremony team, Gareth, Ol, Gus, Andy Nurse: fantastic improvisation on the day, brilliant performances with little notice and no rehearsal.

Premier Event Marquees in Goole: for their ignorant and unprofessional behaviour which led to the "Dunkirk spirit" which pulled all these brilliant and resourceful people together to create something far better in the end - it would not have been the same with you.

And everyone else who, as soon as they arrived on site, realised there was a job to do and offered their help immediately. No amount of money spent could have created that atmosphere, which is entirely fitting for us.

And finally, a special thank you to Gareth who was our "Man on the ground" from the very beginning and without whom, this whole event would not have been possible.

Summer's end and Blighty beckons

What appear to be London Plane trees stand by the water’s edge here in the marina, their maple-shaped leaves curl at the edges and their colour is changing. The few horse-chestnut trees found in this part of Montenegro are dropping their spiky green cases to the ground below, emptying themselves of shining, silky smooth conkers that taste faintly of blood when you touch them with your tongue. The sun has lost its intensity, the late afternoon holds a hazy, soft light. And for the first time in so many months, I am held in a closed up boat, dressed in fleecy trousers and dodging those drips again.

Our remarkable summer is rapidly drawing to a close and despite life being frighteningly brilliant at the moment, I cannot help but feel a certain sadness. Another summer gone, another summer I haven’t got to look forward to, one less summer in my life. Doesn’t autumn bring home your mortality?

I’ve been told I’m a brat. Which is, of course, true.

Anyhow, less of this morbidity and more of what we’ve been up to this summer. Well, it couldn’t have gone any better really (unless someone took pity on us and decided to donate a million quid to the Monty B leak-prevention fund). Our hopes and dreams were realised in early September when we hit our 52nd booking of the season which met our “one booking a week, every week of the year break-even/enough to survive and more” imaginary goal. So we have enough money to get through the winter, though not enough to plough back into the boat in anything other than an essential maintenance manner. But we are lucky to have done as well as we have and if we manage to find some other income over the winter, even better.

From mid May until the beginning of September, life was a blur of frenetic daily boat cleaning and associated arguments, big smiles and lots of enthusiasm, escape from the heat out on the water, sailing, lots and lots of sailing, gaining the vicarious pleasure of taking in the scenery, seen hundreds of times, through fresh eyes, lots of jumping off the boat and splashing around (though lots more watching other people doing it and making sure they didn’t drown), more tomatoes chopped than I care to think about and the sumptuous pleasure of watching the light and G&Ts soften everyone’s faces as the sun dipped behind the soaring peaks. Then usually we would crash out within an hour of dropping anchor. Lots of high energy and clean fun.

We both seem to be at our happiest when sailing, which is a bloody good job seeing as we live on a sailing boat. With Monty’s hull problems last year, we were always a little cautious I’ve really got into it this summer and just love the feel of controlling the boat when she is under sail. We spent many a day outside the bay, on off the Adriatic coast, with clean wind, deep blue waters and views of the mountains (and the many storms). We’ve learnt so much, by trial and error, as the year has gone on and I just wish we had the time this autumn to take Monty B on a voyage to somewhere.

But the reason why we are not doing this is because in 3 day’s time, we will be back in Blighty and in 9 day’s time, we will be standing on top of Mam Tor getting married. This is all followed by the biggest event I will ever be organising (particularly via a USB dial-up internet connection from a boat) – a two day party for around 100 beings, under canvas, in a beautiful spot in the Hope Valley. Our own “Weddingbury”, hopefully without the flash-floods, heavy-handed security and mud baths. See the ever-changing weather forecast for 26 September in Edale: http://www.accuweather.com/world-forecast-15day.asp?partner=accuweather&traveler=0&locCode=EURUKUK131Edale&metric=1

Is it Pammy or Timmy? Who can tell.

We were a tad surprised yesterday when a boat anchored (a bit too) close to us at one of our favourite swimming spots and Pamela Anderson started prancing around on deck in a tiny sparkly bikini. A double-take was necessary - was this Tim in fancy dress? But no, it was the chestistically inflated scrap of a woman herself.

The bodyguards were quite exciting, with their sinister shades and bumps in their trousers (their holsters, I can only presume). The funniest bit of the whole episode was watching the diminutive Pammy attempting to swim, whilst being almost suffocated by her enormous floating breasts.

ps. this is Tim's re-enactment of his best fancy dress costume of all time, where he went as Pamela Anderson to a White Trash party.

pps the sleeping person in the dog suit happens to be yours truly.

Who'd have thunk it?

We finally bit the bullet and entered a regatta a few weeks ago.

Team: Katie (skipper), Tony Browne (tactician), Tim, Laura and Biba (willing crew).

Dogs: Louis, Mollie and Schoona.

Course: Tivat opposite sailing club - Verige channel - Perast islands - Verige channel - Zaliv Tivatska - Zaliv Hercegnovska - Igalo - Herceg Novi breakwater

I have always been somewhat reticent about entering a regatta due to our lack of tactical sailing experience and I didn't want us to look like total dicks. However, the addition of our tactician, Tony, and Laura (experienced crew) gave us the confidence to bite the bullet and enter the race.

Half an hour before the race, Tony was hoisting our spinnaker (which we'd never used before) and fashioned a quick bodge on our slightly broken spinnaker pole. The winds were light as we crossed the start line, but with our fab green spinnaker out front and the addition of 600 litres of water we'd just put in our tanks that very morning (always a race winning tactic, that one), we made good ground and were doing pretty well.

Once around the islands off Perast, we started the beat back up Verige channel and the weight of our boat compared to the (empty) plastic fantastics began to show. A heart-stopping near collision with Pedja, Tim's ex boss, added to the drama as we squeezed every inch out of every tack. Then into Tivat bay for several hours of floating about in dead air, time for a quick swim, some food and all the boats began to bunch up.

Tony's ever-ready, eager approach and constant monitoring with the binoculars gave us the edge for some of the time, finding the tiniest breaths of wind here and there but overall, it was a long slog up to Herceg Novi.

Then the nail-biting finale began, with us just ahead of the rest of the cruising yachts (the racing boats had come in ages before). A misunderstanding about the location of the finish line almost fooled us into thinking we had won - but upon realising we had to round another buoy, we gritted our teeth and with every single ounce of our psychic energy, we urged Monty B forward.

A last minute tactical and silent tack, fooled the boat nearest to us and we inched ahead towards the line, willing the boat to move faster, and as a beautiful breath of wind caught our sails, we crossed the line.

And won!

With legs like jelly, my hands still grasped around the wheel like they were frozen, I couldn't quite believe it. Cheers and clapping from all the other boats - all the local sailing guys, some of the first Montenegrins we had met back in 2007, the Yugoslavian army teams, all the blokes who reckoned that our boat was an "old timer's boat" or a "nostalgia boat" - we beat them all.

And me, a female skipper - a first in Montenegro, that is for sure. Plus the locals think we are utterly bonkers taking 3 dogs on the race too.

A brilliant job by the whole team but most of all to Tony for his brilliant tactical awareness and sail-trimming skill - we learnt so much that day and we all said that it was one of the best days we'd had in years.

And then I woke up and it was all a dream.