Sail of the century

AS THE clipper nosed away from its mooring, the topgallant sails filled, the boat heeled gently, and we edged out into the Mediterranean. The smaller sails began to billow — the angel pokers and cloud disturbers all breezing into action — and Cannes, our port of departure, silently slipped astern.

Yep, angel pokers and cloud what-nots — and that’s just for starters. A lot of new terms will be added to your vocabulary on a voyage on the Star Clipper.

Running before the wind, the 360ft barquentine is just about the most elegant craft afloat: four masts, 16 sails and 22,000 square feet of canvas powers it forwards at up to 20 knots. More prosaically, two 2500 hp diesel engines are available on the odd occasion when the wind fails to make an appearance.

The Star clippers, the first to be built since 1910, offer around  170 passengers a taste of life before the mast. Not to mention G&Ts by the pool and languorous lunches that last until evening.

The sailing ship, although like an apparition from a previous age, provides a high degree of luxury, plus a surprising number of excellent places for sunbathing. These include nets hanging from the bowsprit; from here you may even exchange glances with friendly dolphins.

Our trip began at Cannes in the South of France. I’d imagined a town of deep wealth populated by beautiful, be-thonged people. Which is exactly how it was.

But we had little time to enjoy Cannes and its diversions. After minimal paperwork at the dockside, a squat little tender chugged into harbour to pick us up. Looking very business-like and self-important against the sleek yachts moored in the marina, it conveyed us unfussily to the Star Clipper, moored out in the bay.

At four bells, or maybe six (could even have been eight), we were aboard and heading for our quarters. The clipper’s Edwardian-era style accommodation was entirely right – all wood and brass. The cabins are small, comfortable, and function excellently.

Back on deck it was time for the sail-away. Casting off from the quayside in a Star clipper is always an occasion, done with due swashbuckling pomp. Immaculately dressed sailors scamper about doing things with capstans, belaying pins, hawsers, halyards and ropes.

It’s quite a show. Orchestrated to the tune of Vangelis’s 1492 Symphony, the sails unfurl with dramatic ceremony, along fairy-lit rigging. Our imposing Russian captain — had he been playing the part, he would have been well over the top — barked out orders here, swept the horizon there, swashed his buckles all over the place. The helmsman, Manjeet would continually call out the ship’s bearing to him, while other crew members did equally impressive posing and grandstanding.

Underway now, the wind caught the mainsails, the sun set over Cannes, and we blew southwards to Corsica.

Our first stop was L'Île-Rousse.

Before mooring, we usually had the drama of the local pilots coming alongside in their official boat. At L'Île, one of the pilots grabbed the rope ladder to pull himself aboard. Although a tricky manoeuvre, it usually went smoothly enough. But this poor chap’s baseball cap was caught by the wind and went bowling off into the Mediterranean, in the direction of Africa. It was unclear whether our pilot hadn’t expected it to be windy, or if he just hadn’t done much of this sort of thing before. Anyway, his cap was gone for good, and he disconsolately made his way up the ladder.

Any anxiety caused by this interesting little vignette was soon forgotten on L'Île-Rousse. It turned out to be pretty much a median Corsican town — ravishing to look at and tranquil to visit. In the cluster of ancient buildings, with streets just wide enough for two donkeys to squeeze past each other, mediaeval walls butt up against the apses of half-forgotten churches.

Corsica’s history seems altogether too clamorous to be contained inside one small island.  Everyone from the Phoenicians to the Saracens have engaged in handbags with the locals. Even the British had a go — Calvi, at the top of the island, is where Nelson lost his eye; it’s also one of several places where Christopher Columbus wasn’t born.

Don Juan probably wasn’t born here either, despite similar claims. But his parents definitely were Calviennes, who subsequently decamped to Seville. Don Juan is not the only Corsican to have had an opera written about him. Another is the slightly less romantic figure of all-round cad Theodor Von Neuhoff, Corsica's one and only king, The Westphalian impressively managed to con a British monarch into giving him money on the grounds that Corsica was the source of the "elixir of life" — not strictly true, of course, but you could see where he was coming from.

Theodor arrived on the island and managed to get himself crowned Theodere I. But his reign was short-lived, and by 1736 had been chased off the island, forced to pursue further skullduggery elsewhere in Europe.

All these facts and more can be gleaned from the various day trips organised from the ship, and conducted by local guides.

You can, of course, opt to stay on board; it’s entirely acceptable to be one of the “been there, haven’t done that” T-shirt-wearing fraternity. But when a force 5 freshening breeze sweeps you round the southern tip of the island, and the arresting sight of Bonifacio heaves into view, you know you’ll want to explore this cliff top town. No matter how injudiciously you’ve spent the previous evening, dancing on deck and what not. 

All Corsican towns and villages are either implausibly perched on mountainsides of biblical ruggedness, or desperately cling to a rocky coastline. Bonifacio is no exception. It teeters vertiginously on a narrow wedge of limestone, high over the sea.

From the harbour, a calf-wrenching climb up steps cut into the cliff face lead to a drawbridge and into the Haute Ville. Built mainly in the 16th century, the tiny, tottering houses look as if they’re prevented from dropping into the Mediterranean below by a web of laundry lines and telephone wires.

The town is threaded by shadowy alleyways that, in the evening, are ethereal and mysterious.

Unsurprisingly, this is the setting of Guy de Maupassant's story, Vendetta. The word vendetta, apparently, originates in Corsica. Somehow, it’s not a surprise. Although the people are friendly — friendlier, probably than les folks on the French mainland — the island can still feel distinctly mediaeval, and decidedly spooky.

A local bishop in Saint-Florent, until recent times, kept a loaded pistol by the altar during mass.

Well.

On nearby Sicily — an island to which Corsica is, unsurprisingly, frequently compared — they say that revenge is a dish best served cold. But listen: when it comes to tacos and burritos, they’re best served piping hot. And that’s what was on the menu on board tonight. The food on the Clipper, by the way, is plentiful, and given the tight space afforded to the kitchen, appetising imaginative. But you’ll be happy enough to dine out on the odd day trip.

Soon we were underway again, heading south by south east on a beam reach, tacking against the wind on a bearing of 3247 degrees (that’s all guesswork by the way). Our journey round Corsica continued — and life on board settled into a satisfying rhythm.

In the evenings a small amount of entertainment is provided — a pianist doubles as a DJ, and a multi-lingual entertainments officer runs quizzes and the like.

Sadly, on the night our party decided to enter Le Grand Quizathon, we were pipped at the post by a German team. We didn’t know that before becoming Elvis Presley's agent, Colonel Tom Parker professionally represented a troupe of dancing chickens.

The Germans did.

Our last stop before returning to Cannes was the most famous seaside resort in Europe — Saint-Tropez. Once the haunt of Juliette Gréco, Brigitte Bardot, Picasso and Jean Paul Sartre, today many believe it has somewhat moved down gear, with billionaire oligarchs rubbing shoulders with overpaid sports stars, rock singers and the odd MAW (model, actress, whatever).

But if you see the likes of Bono or Phil Collins approaching, not to worry. St Tropez has many places to hide.

I particularly recommend you hurry into L’Église de Notre-Dame de l'Assomption. You can't miss it. Its the only church with an pink and yellow bell tower in the vicinity. The church houses a bust of St Tropez himself.

I know, I know. I never really thought of their actually being a bloke called Tropez. I expect the Germans knew.

His duties as a saint, apparently, include looking after sailors. I duly doffed my (imaginary) hat in his direction, and headed out into the old town. The narrow cobblestone streets are lined with yacht charter companies, international banks, and designer boutiques who’ll be delighted to relieve you of all your worldly assets.

All this glitz and glamour, you have to remind yourself, is housed in one little French village. But it’s not all Versace and Louis Vuitton. Head up the narrow side streets and you’ll find old-fashioned butchers' shops, a fish market, a boulangerie, and dusty old squares where the locals still play petanque.

But soon it was time to get back on board, listen out for Vangellis, and watch for the last time as the crew struck the topgallant, unfurled the moonsails and pulled up the long rope thingies.

For us passengers, we were left to meditate on what any cruise motto should be: “The cure for anything is salt water — sweat, tears, or the sea.”

I tell you, a trip on the Star Clipper is enough to bring out the poet in anyone.

Star Clippers (www.starclippers.co.uk) offers fully-crewed sailing voyages in the Mediterranean, the Baltic, Central America and the Caribbean on three of the world’s largest tall ships.

There are three clippers: the Royal Clipper, the Star Clipper and the Star Flyer.

The ships are unsuitable for children and the fact that the wifi is iffy (at best) and expensive, probably means not many teenagers will be on board.