Beachcombing bullocks charge yachtsman


It was my own fault. Wearing a bright red oilskin jacket I strode out along the wild shores of Galway Bay as a lowering sky boiled over my head in contorted cumulo nimbus. Rain hissed down on the bay waters flattening the white horses. It roared straight in from the Atlantic… a fair old fetch. They call Galway the ‘front line’ for good reason.

I was, dear reader, there on your worthy behalf as you will discover in a future issue of Yachting Monthly, and as my wellies negotiated the treacherous turf clumps, throwing me off into brackish, brown, ankle-snapping, pot holes, while sweating off a lunchtime pint of stout I did not hear the approach of what nearly became my nemesis. In this way I stumbled along the shore towards the marina which is to host the Volvo Ocean Race in 2009. Then something made me turn round.

To my horror 60 black bullocks were galloping towards me, exorcised by the flapping red flanks of my Musto jacket. Without a moment’s hesitation I ran into the sea, up to my thighs. Mercifully the black beasts did not follow and I waded along the shore until I could get over a ragstone wall and make my escape. So, any of you Volvo mariners who fancy stretching your legs, don’t say I have not warned you.