On the French marina

Ah, the thrill of the chase. In Port Napoleon, a vast and barren parking lot at the mouth of the Rhone, we are eyeing off a Hallberg Rassy cruising yacht named Enki. A relatively youthful beauty with a much-coveted hard-top, she's parked at the end of B pontoon, her clean stern turned towards the Mediterranean and her bow pointing up the river valley, into the howling Mistral wind. Alex is smitten, of course. He can't keep his hands off her. We're here for two days, and then we must leave to look at the rest of the field. I wonder what the point of that will be when I see him prowling around Enki with a look of possession in his eyes. But we are keeping an open mind, aren't we?

Last night for the first time in many months I fell asleep to the sound of a strong restless wind in the rigging and the tinny clang of steel against aluminium. We have taken a room at the marina, courtesy of the Capitainerie, looking out onto a small section of the hundreds upon hundreds of yachts parked high and dry here. If I could I would show you the view from our window, but we are minus essential cables for our camera. They're in a bag which didn't show up on the carousel at Barcelona. Alex's preference for wearing the same set of clothes for several days on the trot has finally been vindicated (I feel guilty relief that it was his bag not mine which went missing in transit).

The mood at Port Napoleon is the mood of marinas everywhere. It's hard to put your finger on it, but people in marinas move slowly, even when they're focused on getting a particular job done. They move deliberately, and thoughtfully. You don't get that crazy, stressed feeling in a marina that you get in towns.  I never thought I would say it, but I've missed marinas. Just for old times' sake, I popped my head into the laundromat. Just checking the denomination you need for the dryer, I told Alex.