Boffin to Frenchport

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Left Inishboffin at 0930 with John Hillis, Moritz, Sally and Pat on Board. We arrived in Frenchport just south of Erris head about 1930. The winds were very light southerlies and Moritz managed to get the occasional 4 knots but we were avaraging 3. About 1300 we reckoned we would not make Frenchport before dark so reluctantly we started the enging and motorede at 5 knots. This is an amazing part of the coast. The hugh cliffs of Achill at 624 metres are the highest in the country. The beautiful Inishkea islands south of Black Sod Bay and the impressive Black Rock. We managed to catch a dozen mackerel and after navigating the big swell in the entrance we dropped anchor in Portnafrancach. This is a remote spot with nothing but a few fishing boats anchored and a little slip. Its five miles from Belmullet. After a slap-up dinner the two hardy bucks went ashore on the dinghy. Sally and I stayed aboard. Despite the remoteness of the place the two adventurers managed tofind a pub and got a taxi back to the slip later. Next morning we were all sad to see Moritz leave. He had done the entire passage from Baltimore 16 days earlier. His sailing skills and resourcefullness had been a huge asset. We would carry on without him but it would not be the same. He hitched to Cork and 1'5 lifts and 24 hours later he was in Skib.
Sally, John and Pat set off for Belmullet. There was a gale forecast so after putting out 40M of chain we left FR to the mercy of the elements. We walked 3-4 miles through wild and remote country with wildflowers galore before two young Dutch marine biologists gave us a lift. The locals were not interested in stoppong for three disreputable and scruffy looking characters. So to Belmullet and we booked in to the Strand Bay Hotel. After a quick shower we had the mother and father of a BLT with chips. Then after a stroll about town there was nothing for it except a pint. Healys in the centre of town is in the same family for four generations. Its a gem. Tiny and the owner is a lovely friendly man. He had trinkets and artifacts and knick-knacks going back to the flood. Its like a museum. There were a few characters in there that made me feel like I was in a play. A cross between J.B. Keane and Martin McDonagh. After a few pints the landlord informed us that he always closed at 1800 so we retired to the next nearest watering hole. This is the WORST PUB IN THE WORLD!. We would have just walked out agin but we were in the company of a local that we had befriended in Healys. This was a horror show. It was a smalll metal box with a few local lads racously skulling cans of cider. The racing channel was blaring. The demted looking barman was ogling the racing post and this nasty looking guy at the bar was playing with two live lobsters. Awful.
But Belmullet is a pretty little town and it was good to have a night ashore.

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