Right, then. Heath here. You remember us? The slightly unhinged couple who swapped sensible shoes for deck shoes and a mortgage for mooring fees? Pookie, the culinary tornado who can reduce a MasterChef contestant to tears with a raised eyebrow (lovingly, of course), and yours truly, the eternal optimist currently attempting to circumnavigate the globe whilst batting away mishaps like they’re particularly aggressive wasps. Our floating home? The magnificent, multi-hulled Sawasdeekat – a name that’s both a cheery Thai ‘hello’ and a terribly clever wink to the fact she’s a Catamaran. Get it? (We added the ‘t’. Pure nautical genius, not a spelling fail. Honestly.)

We’d been AWOL from the high seas for a spell. Blame Pookie’s culinary prowess. She’d been back in Blighty, absolutely rocking Quaglino’s kitchen – doubled their takings, no less, probably by sheer force of personality and incredible food. Then, she swanned back onto MasterChef, this time wielding the terrifying power of the judge’s spoon. October finally rolled around, and we practically sprinted back to Mandraki Marina, nestled within Corfu’s ancient citadel walls. Sawasdeekat had been precariously left on the outside dock and she looked relieved to see us. We gave her a good scrub, filled her tanks with water and fuel until she sloshed, and pointed her bow resolutely north. Destination? Albania. Yes, we did check out properly. We’re rebels, not barbarians.

Sarandë: Where Starters Reign Supreme

First port of call: Sarandë, Albania. Now, checking in here involves agents, whispers, and possibly a secret handshake. We opted for the agent. Far easier than attempting Albanian bureaucracy armed only with a hopeful smile and Pookie’s leftover MasterChef clout.

Paperwork sorted, we hit the town. Hunger struck. We found a charmingly unassuming little restaurant with a menu that was... well, singular. It offered precisely one thing: The 14-Course Starter Extravaganza. You read that right. Fourteen. Courses. Of starters. It was like Albania, in miniature edible dioramas, landing on our table one delicious, bewildering plate at a time.

Octopus salad whispering secrets of the Ionian? Check. Flaky pastries cradling mysterious, fragrant meats? Absolutely. Cheese that could probably stand up and argue politics? Present and accounted for. We welcomed Albania with open arms, open mouths, and frankly, several open bottles of rather agreeable local wine. A triumph!

The Odyssey: Dolphins, Dinghies, and Determined Birds

Buoyed by Albanian hospitality (and those fourteen starters), we set sail north the next day for Porto Palermo. Nicknamed "Rocky’s Beach," it promised… well, rocks. And a seafood market proximity so legendary, you could almost smell it. Emphasis on almost. We blinked, missed the olfactory fanfare, and decided, "Onwards!"

However, what followed wasn't just a sail; it was an epic journey. We slipped our lines at 6am, aiming for a modest 45-mile hop. The sea gods, however, were feeling frisky. Sawasdeekat surged along at a sprightly 5.8 knots. By 11am, we’d already smashed our target. The sun was high, the dolphins were playing tag with the bow, and a dangerous thought entered my mind: "We could just... keep going?" Reader, we kept going. 91 miles. Our longest sail yet. What could possibly go wrong?

Enter: The Dinghy of Destiny.

Bobbing forlornly in the middle of the open sea, a dinghy, sat, like a lost rubber duck in God’s bathtub. No owner in sight. Just a lonely, slightly deflated inflatable. My inner Boy Scout (and latent hoarder) kicked in. "We can't leave it to crash on the rocks!" I declared, heroically (foolishly?). Looking around earnestly in a hope of seeing its owner, we adopted it. Tethered it astern. Instant flotilla! Our very own maritime rescue mission. Ah, the warm glow of nautical altruism.

The idea lasted about as long as a snowflake in a frying pan. Past the brooding island of Sazan, the sea decided we’d had too much fun. The wind piped up, the waves grew teeth, and Sawasdeekat started doing her best bucking bronco impression. Just as things got interesting, navigating shallow waters where maneuvering felt like threading a needle whilst riding a unicycle... BANG! (Well, more of a disgruntled hiss). The starboard engine threw a tantrum and shut down in an overheated mood. Brilliant. Now we were reliant solely on Port – No, not the drink!, the less reliable engine ever since Greece!. Our speed plummeted to a soul-crushing 3 knots. Progress felt geological. We limped, we cooled, we prayed to Poseidon (and any passing mechanic saints). Eventually, after a quiet plead from me, both engines grudgingly consented to 2000 rpm. 7:30pm saw us back at a dizzying 5 knots. Glacial, but moving.

Then came our Feathered Stowaway. As dusk bled into proper night, a small, utterly exhausted bird crash-landed onto our deck around 9pm. Not a request. A demand. It looked at us, puffed its chest out (as much as a bedraggled feather duster can), and essentially said, "Right, you lot. I'm done. Take me to land. Now." It refused all offers of water-soaked bread (Pookie’s suggestion, naturally) and hunkered down, radiating avian entitlement. For hours, this tiny, demanding hitchhiker rode shotgun as we battled the elements, the tick-tock of the engines our only soundtrack besides the slapping waves. Around 11pm, the weather finally eased, nudging us to a blistering 5.5 knots. We anchored in Durres and in inky darkness, exhausted. We left a window open and some provisions for our demanding guest. Come dawn? The bird was gone. Vanished. No thank you note. Nothing. Suspicious don't you think?.

Customs, Confiscation, and Comedic Cops

Turns out, our feathered friend might have been working for Albanian Customs. Or at least, he had impeccable timing. At sparrow's fart the next morning, a serious-looking official boat pulled alongside. Two men: One Albanian, built like a brick outhouse, face like a clenched fist. The other? Italian. Beaming, cheerful, looking like he’d won a Mediterranean cruise and ended up on duty by mistake. A classic comedy duo.

Papers were demanded. Presented. Then, the inevitable: "Two dinghies?" the Brick Outhouse grunted, eyeing our rescued inflatable.

"Ah!"

I launched into my heroic tale of maritime salvage. The Italian official's face lit up. "Bravo!" he boomed, clapping me on the shoulder (nearly sending me overboard). "A new dinghy! You keep it! A gift from the sea!"

Joy! Validation! My inner hoarder did a jig. But then... the Brick Outhouse leaned in, whispered something fierce into the Italian’s ear. The Italian’s smile faltered. He looked sheepish. "Ah, my friend here... he say we cannot let you keep it, we must try to find owner. Very sorry." He shrugged, the universal gesture for 'What can you do? His brother probably needs a new dinghy'. So much for gifts from the sea. We handed over our brief flotilla addition, waved goodbye to the comedy cops, and headed ashore to explore Durrës.

Durrës Delights & A Venetian View

Durrës is a lovely, bustling seaside city. We ambled along the sun-drenched promenade, breathing in the salt air and the scent of grilling seafood. Lunch was a spectacular seafood medley – the Adriatic on a plate – washed down with crisp local white wine. Bliss. Fun Fact Alert! Durrës boasts one of the largest Roman amphitheatres in the Balkans, capable of holding 15,000-20,000 spectators for gladiatorial bouts and theatrical performances. (and here was us with Rome still a recent memory). Imagine the noise!

Less fun fact: Later it was used as a cemetery. Cheerful.

Seeking a view, I tackled the Venetian Tower – a sturdy, centuries-old sentinel. Steep steps? Pookie’s legs, honed for kitchen marathons not medieval staircases, politely declined. "Get me a picture, Heath," she commanded from sea level. So I did. The panoramic vista of the city and harbour was worth the calf burn. She admired it vicariously, probably while planning dinner. Food was far better than we had first tried in Albania and we were not force fed 14 starters! We checked out and moved northwards.

Montenegro Beckons (With Fish!)

Next stop: Checking into Montenegro at Bar. We crossed the Gulf of Drin (who knew that existed? We do now!) and found Bar to be a surprisingly pleasant spot. Paperwork? Sorted with impressive efficiency. Even better news? Our mates, Ed & Karen, intrepid sailors we’d befriended back in Corfu, were waiting across the bay, bottle in fridge! A quick VHF call later, and we were reunited. Cue much laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the swapping of tales that grew taller with each round. Essential therapy after the Dinghy Debacle and Bird Incident.

Something Fishy going on….

Now, fishing from Sawasdeekat... it’s been a saga. A comedy of errors stretching back over a year, to Episode 014 (our Maiden Voyage Fiasco where miraculously we caught the Amberjack in the picture below). Since then, we’ve trolled lures that sparkled like disco balls, used bait that smelled like a fisherman’s dream, and achieved precisely... nada. Zilch. Our fishing rod was basically a very expensive washing line.

So, imagine the scene. We’re making the final 38-mile hop to Porto Montenegro, engines grumbling (Port topped up with oil, Starboard’s fan belt doing an interpretive dance, and a new, mysterious tick-tick-tick serenading us from the aft port cabin – a winter project list is forming...). Trepidation? Understatement. Suddenly... ZZZZZZZZZZZT! The reel SCREAMED. Not a hopeful little tug. A proper, rod-bending, heart-stopping RUN.

Pookie shrieked. I wrestled. After a battle that felt epic (but probably looked comical), we hauled aboard... TUNA! Actual, edible, glorious TUNA! Our FIRST CATCH since we sailed much to close to that fish nature reserve in Spain (maybe I’ve said too much!) High fives! Disbelief! Plans for sushi danced in Pookie’s eyes. The Sawasdeekat fishing curse was broken! The engine grumbles and the mysterious tick-tick were instantly forgotten. Triumph!

Porto Paradise

And finally, Porto Montenegro. Wow. Just... wow. Pulling in felt like entering a nautical five-star hotel. Gleaming yachts, immaculate pontoons, water so clear you could probably spot a mermaid’s lost earring. Even the slime line (where boats get their bottoms cleaned) looked suspiciously hygienic. This place has polish. It has style. It has… reliable shore power. After our Albanian odyssey, it feels like heaven with a helipad. We think we’re going to like wintering here. Very much.

But Wait—The Adventure Continues! 

Now, you might think marina life sounds about as thrilling as watching antifreeze dry. Au contraire! Winter in Porto Montenegro is less “hibernation” and more “floating carnival.” We’ve already collided with a cast of characters so vibrant, they’d make a Wes Anderson film look beige. There’s Klaus, the German who speaks exclusively in yacht puns (“Hull-o there!”). Marjorie, the Canadian widow who’s sailed everywhere twice and knits hats for seagulls. And Dmitri, a Russian oligarch’s nephew who’s convinced our catamaran is a stealth spy vessel (we lean into it). 

Next Episode Teaser: Dubrovnik, Drag & Domestic Collapse 

Highlights from our upcoming marina misadventures: 

• A Dubrovnik Dash: We rented a car dubbed “The Balkan Tin Can.” Its most reliable feature? The check engine light (permanently on, like a melancholic nightlight). It coughed its way to Dubrovnik, where Game of Thrones tour groups are a cultural plague. Fun Fact: Dubrovnik’s limestone streets were polished by centuries of silk slippers—now mostly by Nikes. 

• Halloween Hijinks: Yours truly (Heath) may or may not have attended the marina’s Halloween party as “Dolly Parton-meets-Poseidon.” The photos exist. We plead the Fifth. 

• The Great British Crash Landing: After all that Montenegrin merriment, we’ll collapse back to the UK for Christmas—likely resembling two over-tanned, slightly pickled raisins.

   

Until next time, keep your engines cool, your dinghies accounted for, and your wigs seaworthy!

Pookie & Heath (Currently researching how to explain a seashell bra to UK Customs)