On my way back south I stopped by Wales (why not) to sail Rhosneigr. I’d heard it was good from a group of windsurfers I’d met on my travels (read the story here) and it was practically on my way. The forecast didn’t look promising but when I arrived after a rainy eight-hour drive, the wind was strong and the waves big. The particularity of the spot is that it holds a very big wave and the prevailing southwest wind is also almost exactly onshore. Usually big waves and onshore wind mean bruised limbs and broken equipment, and I was very apprehensive about going out. But a few people were out and having fun, and the Rhosneigr waves break very slowly and leave plenty of room between them, so maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
The other particularity of the spot is that it’s a magnet for windsurfing talent. It’s where Ben Proffitt grew up (the pro I met in Portugal), where Phil Horrocks lives (the pro I sailed with in Chile), and on the day I was there, the beach was packed with young windsurfers, as many girls as boys, that put me to shame. The next day, my “buddies” Ben and Phil placed 1st and 2nd in the annual UK wavesailing competition hosted here, at Rhosneigr, their home spot.
Anyway, not cowed by the waves or the talent, I rigged, launched and tentatively figured out how the place works, where the waves break, how close I could get to the beach and the rocks (there are always rocks), and how to stay out of the way of the locals. It wasn’t Tiree, but it was fun.
What was also fun was accidentally running into Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, a small village a few miles away, that has, unsurprisingly, the longest name in Europe and second longest in the world. The short version is Llanfairpwllgwyngyll, which is still a mouthful. I needed a pharmacy and that’s where it was. I was glad that I didn’t have to ask anyone for directions.
Next stop was London to help my daughter move houses, a two-day workout that left me with a sprained back that I’m still nursing today. How ironic that I incur my first ever backache from house chores and yet have been unaffected by years of heavy windsurfing. Which just reinforces my conviction that risky pastimes done carefully are safer than safe pastimes done carelessly. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
I still had more sailing to do though, so I painfully took the road again to Normandy (by way of the wonderfully efficient Eurotunnel, a car-train that takes you under the Channel), where I wanted to sail Siouville.
Siouville is one of those typically ridiculously quaint French country villages you see in magazines, with grey stone walls, pointed slate roofs, flowers on the windowsills, and an air of effortless sophistication. With one exception. At the entrance of the village stands a sign pronouncing Siouville a “surfing town.” It is in fact one of the better surfing waves in France outside of the world-renowned Landes area near Biarritz. A wide beach perfectly exposed to the incoming swells, and equally exposed to the passing storms, which makes it a great windsurfing wave as well.
The forecast for wind wasn’t promising but I hoped to get lucky by just showing up. The first day was for surfing only. The swell was forecast to be 1ft so I was surprised to be riding 6ft waves. A bit intimidating but lots of people in the water and miles of empty beach made for a very safe environment.
Overnight a small storm formed by chance and swept quickly over the area, bringing exactly the right wind to the spot. I was so excited to windsurf that I was the first person out, in the driving rain, as the wind was just getting started. Even the surfers were staying away because of the weather. I enjoyed 30 minutes of great wave sailing alone before a couple of other windsurfers joined me, and then suddenly we were 15 sharing the waves. As the storm moved north, the wind direction changed too, so within two hours the perfect wind and waves were over. The forecast for the rest of the week was no wind, so I’d had my Siouville experience and it was as I had wanted it to be.
With no wind anywhere on the west coast it was time to head home. I didn’t yet have the 20 windsurfing days I wanted (not counting the dozen surfing days), so I stopped off where I had started, at Brutal Beach, this time just around the corner, behind a cliff promontory at a place called La Coudou. It’s a spot with an excellent reputation among the local pros, often featured in the windsurfing magazines, but I’d never understood why: the wind is almost straight onshore (which makes it difficult to ride a wave), the wave breaks right under a cliff (which makes it difficult not to end up on the rocks), and it’s very crowded. From the beach it looked underwhelming and difficult all at once. Still I went out to try my luck and after three days sailing there I got it: the wave breaks cleanly and gently. It’s a true surfing spot without any of the angst of being pummelled by the wave. Lots of fun and long sailing sessions. I’ll be back.
And then it was over. One more dream trip checked off my list. Lack of wind meant that I didn’t reach every hot spot I was hoping for (Gwithian, Brandon Bay, La Torche, Ré) but I was pretty lucky with the others, because sailing the west coast, hoping the storms show up for you at the right time and place, is not always such a lucky experience. Next up, Cape Town, Ho’okipa and Pacasmayo. Stay tuned.
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