ON THE EDGE
Qui voit Ouessant boit son sang.’ In plain English, this old Breton sailors’ proverb reads: ‘He who sees Ushant sups his own blood.’
Many a seaman would be inclined to agree, certainly from the days of sail when Ushant represented the final obstacle to be weathered to beat clear of the Channel, or the last tide-swept headland to round before the cliffs of England came up in the morning.
‘From Ushant to Scilly is 35 leagues…’ The legends and the folklore go on. They certainly had their effect on my morale as a young skipper long before GPS made it all so easy. Ushant sits at the outer end of a string of islands, reefs and general grief extending seawards from Pointe de St Mathieu, grim guardian of the Goulet de Brest. The passage inside this lot is the quickest way to Spain for any vessel venturing south-west from up-Channel, yet it was years before I dared poke my bowsprit into its waters. A glance at the chart suggests horrors in plenty and the ripping tide has to be just right.
It rarely was when I arrived; my pilotage was far from confident, so I always passed outside the island, safe under the loom of the mighty Creac’h light
