Atlantic Homecoming: Veteran Crew, Storm Survival & Ireland Landfall

British Army veterans, blue-water miles, and one roaring Atlantic storm. In this episode we leave the Caribbean, grab a rare weather window, and push Salamanca east for Southern Ireland and a long-awaited homecoming. Expect real seamanship — reefed main, storm jib, four-hour watches, damage control drills, and the kind of gallows humour only service life teaches. After 30 hours of heavy weather we make landfall in Baltimore (Ireland), cruise the Scilly Isles, then hop Plymouth → Dartmouth → Portland → Newtown Creek before finally sliding into Gosport. We celebrate with a proper veterans’ debrief (tea, pies, and Guinness), then reveal our new Solent base — a purpose-built studio, “The Salamanca Club,” and a bike workshop ready for future Riding Through History tours.

If you love military and life stories, offshore sailing adventures, veteran camaraderie, rugby banter, skiing grit, and Cold War/BAOR nostalgia from postings to Germany in the 1970s, ’80s, ’90s, ’00s and ’10s, you’re in the right place. Subscribe for PSYOPS-level storytelling, honest mental health chat, and hard-won lessons from the ocean and the field.

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Transcript

Charts spread out, forecasts scrutinised, and eyebrows raised—we spotted what sailors dream of: a rare meteorological miracle. An entire week of favourable winds and calm seas. That was our cue. Lines cast off, mugs of tea lashed down, and Salamanca’s bow turned eastward toward Southern Ireland—three thousand nautical miles away. Our arsenal? Buckets of optimism, a stash of chocolate Hobnobs, and the fervent hope that Neptune was in a generous mood.

For the first eleven days, it was nothing short of bliss. Blue skies, gentle swells, and Salamanca ticking along at a steady six knots—the sort of passage smug sailing blogs are made of. We fell into our rhythm like clockwork: four-hour watches, hearty meals, dodgy playlists on repeat, and endless rounds of “guess that cloud.” (For the record, Johan insists one definitely looked like a Viking helmet. I still say it was a teapot.)

Just when we were beginning to think we might actually get away with calling the Atlantic a big blue pussycat, the script flipped. The sat phone pinged—ominously. Jimmy’s message from back home was short and not at all sweet: “Heads up. Storm inbound. Big one.” There was nowhere to run, no Caribbean island to sneak behind. Just us, Salamanca, and a wall of weather marching straight for our stern.

So, we did what any salty, stubborn, and overly-prepared sailors would do: reefed the main, hoisted the storm jib, lashed down every hatch we could find—and prayed like choirboys on Sunday. The sea rose around us like something from a Norse saga, waves rearing and crashing as the wind shrieked like a banshee on Red Bull. Helm, bail, cling on, repeat—that was the rhythm.

Johan swears blind the kettle never stopped boiling, even when Salamanca was practically sideways. For thirty relentless hours we battled it out—wet, wired, and wondering which one of us had annoyed Poseidon personally. And then, almost as suddenly as it began, it was gone. The storm passed, leaving behind an ocean smoothed into a postcard cliché and skies so dazzlingly blue they made the Caribbean look positively sulky.

With the storm behind us and Salamanca striding along once more, spirits soared as high as the sails. By day twenty, the Hobnobs were dangerously low, we’d started naming the dolphins like distant cousins, and then—land. Southern Ireland, green and glorious, rising from the horizon with the unmistakable scent of peat, salt, and promise.

We ghosted into Baltimore Harbour on a gentle evening breeze, sails fluttering like they, too, were relieved to be ashore. Lines made fast, knots tidy, and four very weary sailors finally let themselves breathe. That first pint of Guinness didn’t so much get drunk as vanish—straight down, no hesitation. With fish and chips on the table and tired grins all round, we raised our glasses. Every mile had been earned, and every mile had been worth it.

The next morning, bleary-eyed but still buzzing from our Guinness-fuelled triumph, we slipped lines on the tide and set Salamanca’s bows south-east toward the Scilly Isles—those little jewels that guard the gateway home.

Twenty-five hours of gentle sailing later, the air carried that unmistakable tang of gorse, and the Cornish coastline rose from the mist like a scene out of a fairy tale. We dropped anchor in St Mary’s Sound just as the sun decided to treat us to its finest golden-hour performance. Mid-July by now, and the unanimous vote was for a bit of well-earned R&R before making our final landfall back in Blighty.

We lingered in the Scillies for two glorious weeks, turning Salamanca into a sort of floating recovery ward. Mornings began with bracing swims—always accompanied by shrieks that echoed off the cliffs—and were followed by daily runs across the islands to prove we still had legs.

Afternoons turned into a campaign of competitive pastie-sampling, purely for research, of course. The locals were wonderfully welcoming, if slightly baffled by our determination to film everything—from sunrise yoga on the foredeck to Johan’s doomed attempt at baking sourdough in a gimballed oven. The editing backlog grew almost as fast as our waistlines.

By the time we’d rehydrated, detoxed (well, sort of), and coaxed our sea-legs back into actual functioning legs, we knew the time had come. Salamanca was polished, provisioned, and pointing east. Home was just over the horizon.

We couldn’t resist taking the scenic route home—true romantics, or perhaps just indecisive navigators. First stop was Plymouth for a pub session and a proper pie, because priorities. Then Dartmouth, where the girls declared it “Breton stripe day,” and the lads wisely didn’t argue. Portland served up stiff breezes and even stiffer pints, while Newtown Creek gifted us one last night at anchor—a still, starry evening laced with laughter and the gentle clink of glasses.

And then, finally, Gos port. Sliding back into Dolphin Pool, Salamanca returned to her berth exactly one year—and roughly 10,000 nautical miles—after we’d first cast off. Lines secure, kettle on, and four very salty, very happy sailors grinning like kids who’d just conquered the playground. Home again, with stories enough to last a lifetime.

And there it was—as if conjured by magic, or more likely Harry’s impeccable sense of timing—our trusty van sat waiting nearby like a loyal old hound. Harry had kept it ticking over all year, even washed it once (or so he claimed, though the mud on the wheel arches told another story).

We stepped ashore—sun-kissed, salt-stained, a little leaner, a little browner, and grinning like fools. The Atlantic adventure might’ve been over, but one truth was crystal clear: Salamanca had earned her stripes, and so had we.

“Charlie, bless him, pulled up in his spotless Volvo like a proud dad pickin’ us up from a Duke of Edinburgh hike. He had that grin, you know the one—like he’d been sittin’ on a secret for weeks and couldn’t wait to spill it.”

“And then we rounded that final bend. I swear, our jaws just dropped. We’d seen the photographs, followed every little update he sent us, but in person? Oh, Stephen, it was like walking into a dream we didn’t even realise we’d been having.”

“The car park out front was finished like a showpiece—block paving laid with such precision you could’ve eaten your dinner off it. Each bay had its own colour, subtle but clever, like Charlie had been playing Tetris with stones and decided even the cars deserved VIP treatment.”

“Yeah, and he’d gone and put in this darker strip of stone that drew your eyes straight to the front door—massive oak thing, looked like it’d been pinched from a castle or some medieval armoury. I half expected it to creak open with a knight standin’ there in full plate.”

“On either side, those bay windows sat like two smug butlers—handsome, polished, and just a little too aware of how fine they looked. And behind us, the Solent stretched out in all its glory… but honestly, we barely noticed. Every bit of our attention was locked on that house.”

“Inside, we stepped into this hallway wide enough to march a platoon through. Honestly, it felt like walkin’ onto a film set. The staircase swept up like somethin’ out of Gone With the Wind—only with better taste and, thank God, none of the drama.”

“The living room made me laugh—it looked straight out of an interiors magazine. Comfortable, yes, but with that subtle military neatness, as if someone had measured the cushions with a ruler. You could almost hear the drill sergeant approving.”

“And the study, oh, that was somethin’ else. Solid oak desks, big leather chairs, bookshelves from wall to wall. You half expected M to step out with a briefing file—proper MI6 chic.”

“Our new computers were due any moment, along with a 60-inch TV to hang on the wall. Once those arrived, the whole place would basically be a command centre in disguise. A reading nook for spies, if you like.”

“Then Charlie opened the door to the crown jewel—the control room and studio. And honestly, Hollywood could just pack up and go home. The whole space was soundproofed, acoustic panels everywhere, lit up like a BBC soundstage.”

“Yeah, proper green screen wall on one side, pull-down backdrops on the other. And sittin’ proud in the middle—a Mac Studio with enough screens to run a space launch. I swear, you could’ve guided Apollo 11 home from that desk.”

“One half was set up news-style—corner desk, room for all four of us, lights and cameras perfectly angled. The other side had two beautiful couches facing each other, made for interviews or panels. Every rig and lens was placed with military precision to give us that broadcast shine.”

“And the kit—boom mics, a dozen high-spec cameras, ring lights, studio monitors. Even a little coffee station tucked in the corner, ‘cause let’s face it, nothin’ runs without caffeine.”

“Honestly? If MI5 and Netflix had a baby, this would be its nursery.”

“I couldn’t help meself—I plonked down at that corner desk, straightened my back, and gave it the full newsreader act. ‘And tonight’s top story: Vinka’s made another pot of meatballs, and it’s chaos in the kitchen.’”

“He thinks he’s funny. I, on the other hand, was already picturing proper interviews—serious, thoughtful conversations, the kind where people forget the cameras are even there. The kind of space where stories could be told with honesty.”

“Yeah, yeah, but you can’t tell me those couches don’t just scream late-night chat show. Couple of mugs of tea, bit of banter—Bob’s your uncle, we’re the Swedish-Cockney answer to Parkinson.”

“Or we’re professionals running a broadcast centre, depending on which one of us you ask.”

“The small sitting room did exactly what it said on the tin—small, yes, but absolutely full of charm. Those plush armchairs didn’t just let you sit; they wrapped you up like an old friend and whispered, stay a while.”

“Yeah, proper snug spot. Little telly on the wall, just right for catchin’ the news—or, more likely, watchin’ our ski videos again when the rain’s hammerin’ down outside. You know the ones where I look graceful until I land face-first in a snowdrift.”

“Next door was the small dining room, perfect for the four of us. Candlelight, a quiet haven for evenings when it was just us, no guests to impress.”

“Takeaway curry on the table, a bottle of red uncorked, and suddenly it’s five-star dinin’. No maître d’, but plenty of laughs.”

“Then we stepped into the kitchen—and I swear, it weren’t a kitchen at all. More like a culinary command centre. You could’ve landed a chopper on the countertop, and still had room left over for the tea tray.”

“Cupboards everywhere. More than we had belongings to fill, which is saying something. And in the middle of it all, the gas cooker—twin ovens, gleaming like the crown jewels. Every appliance so polished it looked ready for its close-up on a cooking show.”

“And just when I thought that was enough, Charlie waved us into the utility room. An industrial washer and dryer, the sort you’d expect at Bessbrook Mill, lined up next to their daintier cousins for the everyday loads.”

“And, because apparently we’d all taken leave of our senses, a professional steam press—the kind tailors use to make everything so sharp it could slice bread. Of course, the old ironing board and steam iron were standing faithfully by too, like loyal footmen. Just in case the command centre ever fancied going old school.”

“Through the far door of the kitchen, we stepped into the main dining room—and suddenly it was like walking into a period drama. Wood-panelled walls gave it that instant stately home feel, rich and dignified.”

“And down the middle, a grand dark oak dining table, stretching out like it’d seen lords, generals, maybe even the odd spy sat round it, plotting the fate of nations. Sideboards to match, polished so much you could check your hair in ‘em.”

“Portraits and prints dressed the walls just so—distinguished without being stuffy. The whole place practically begged for a black-tie dinner party. And trust me, we were already planning the guest list.”

“Then, through the opposite door, into the conservatory—and, well, wow. Floor-to-ceiling glass opening onto a courtyard so perfect it looked like a postcard.”

“On the left, our bike shed—more like a cathedral of horsepower. To the right, the garage. And at the far end—yes, really—the sauna, plunge pool, and hot tub, all tucked beneath a sleek canopy with glass doors that folded wide to let in the sunshine, and the laughter.”

“The bike shed weren’t just a shed—it was a temple. Big enough to house fifty motorbikes, easy. Our own private museum and workshop rolled into one.”

“Four workbenches stood ready, each one spaced out so no one’s elbows would collide mid-carburettor rebuild. And every single bench had its Snap-on tool cabinet—every tool you could think of, from the simplest spanner to torque wrenches that could probably measure a butterfly’s sneeze.”

“Overhead, the natural light poured down like divine approval. And just in case the clouds fancied spoilin’ things, we’d rigged up enough work lights to flood Wembley. The floor was painted concrete, tough as nails, with rubber mats stacked ready to lay under the bikes like red carpets.”

“Plans were already spinning in our heads—bringing down the whole collection, giving each machine its own polished slice of paradise. It was less a garage, more a sanctuary of horsepower.”

“Then came the sauna suite—and ‘suite’ really is the right word. The sauna could seat a dozen people with room to spare, perfect for unwinding after a long ride or for a quick pre-dinner detox.”

“And the hot tub—proper indulgence, that. Nestled between the two, a plunge pool sat waitin’ to shock the life out of anyone daft enough to dive in after a good sweat. ‘Cause what’s the point of roastin’ yourself if you can’t freeze straight after, eh?”

“The whole wall was folding glass doors that opened onto a sun terrace. Elegant loungers stretched across it, practically begging for mojitos and a good novel under the afternoon sun.”

“And then there was the garage—enough room for the van plus five cars, all kept snug behind a top-spec electric door. Of course, the whole property was wired up with military-grade security and CCTV. You can take the team out of the army, but you can’t take the paranoia out of the team.”

“Next, we headed back inside and down into the cellar—and blimey, it weren’t your average basement. More like a Bond villain’s lair crossed with a country club.”

“The ceiling soared a good twelve feet high, so instead of feeling cramped, it felt like stepping into a secret underground palace. Cool, calm, and perfectly designed.”

“Right by the stairs stood the pride of place—the wine cellar. Four climate-controlled coolers humming away like sentries on guard duty. Two for red, two for white, each one able to swallow a hundred bottles without blinkin’.”

“And beside them, row upon row of oak racks, standing empty for now but patient—waiting for treasures. Stephen was already plotting his grand assault on the Wine Society in Stevenage.”

“Too right. And naturally, Claude would be called in to supply his finest Pauillac claret from Médoc. ‘Cause let’s be honest, no respectable underground lair is complete without a small fortune in fermented grapes.”

“Off to the right, behind a heavy oak door, lay what I think might become the most beloved room in the whole house—the bar.”

“Not just any bar, mind you. This beauty was rescued from a doomed country pub up north. We had it rebuilt here, panel by panel—solid polished oak, brass foot rail, taps gleaming like a Guardsman’s boots.”

“The back wall was a masterpiece—optics lined up in perfect order, shelves stacked with glassware, an ice machine ready for duty, and even a little glass washer that hummed away like the world’s most obedient barman.”

“And the lighting—oh, it could do the lot. Soft and romantic, bright and lively, or—when the disco mood takes us—a glitter ball spinning with spotlights, ready to transport us straight back to the seventies.”

“In the far corner, like a command post, sat the DJ booth—mixing desk, sound system, everything you’d need to shake the house foundations loose.”

“And opposite the bar? A stage, no less. Heavy red velvet curtains, big enough to host a seven-piece swing band—or, if we’re feelin’ daft, our own slightly overambitious amateur dramatics troupe.”

“We just couldn’t resist. Someone hit play—alright, it was Dancing Queen—and the four of us piled onto the dance floor.”

“Oh, and that floor—it wasn’t just any floor. Spring-loaded, tuned perfectly, like they’d borrowed it straight from the Tower Ballroom in Blackpool.”

“Johan even pulled off a twirl that laughed in the face of both gravity and common sense. Nearly took out a light fitting on the way down, too.”

“We were doubled over with laughter when Marlin suddenly clapped her hands, eyes shining, and said, ‘We should call it The Salamanca Club.’”

“Didn’t even pause to think—we all raised imaginary cocktails there and then. And that name stuck quicker than a politician’s promise at election time.”

“Opposite the wine cellar, there were two plain-looking doors—but plain, it turned out, was deceiving. The first opened into our very own gym. Multigym station, rowers, treadmills, a weights bench—and mirrors. So many mirrors. Enough to motivate, or to make you deeply regret ever glancing up mid-grimace.”

“And the second room, while not flashy, was just as vital—the storage den. Folding tables, stackable chairs, and a mountain of floor mats, all stacked and waiting to transform the dancefloor into a dojo. Proper space for throws, holds, and the odd bruised ego.”

“Charlie really had outdone himself. When I asked how he managed to squeeze it all beneath the house, he just gave me that infuriating little wink and said, ‘Some of it’s under the courtyard.’”

“I’m tellin’ you, the bloke’s part architect, part magician. Probably keeps a wand in his toolbox.

“We were already chuffed with the place, but headin’ upstairs sealed the deal. We finally dragged ourselves away from The Salamanca Club—promisin’ each other a boogie later—and padded up the grand staircase. I half expected a footman waitin’ at the top with a tray of sherry.”

“The two master bedrooms were like identical twins, the only difference being which side of the landing you entered from. Perfect mirror images—though with slightly better lighting depending on the time of day.”

“We opened the first door and just… froze. The carpet was so plush it felt like walkin’ on freshly sheared alpacas. Honestly, you could lose a small dog in that shag pile.”

“And the beds—king-size, draped in Egyptian cotton, pillows piled high like a mountain. The kind of bed you’d expect in a five-star Swiss chalet. The moment you looked at it, the mattress whispered, nap time.”

“And then there were the bathrooms—oh, the bathrooms! Each one had a double-ended tub, the kind that begged for bubbles, candles, and maybe even a glass of vintage port balanced on the edge.”

“Jazz quartet could’ve set up in there and still had elbow room. I swear, those tubs were built for serious soakin’, not just splashin’ about.”

“And the walk-in dressing rooms—absolute heaven. ‘His and hers,’ with space enough to swallow every uniform, frock, and bit of kit we’ve ever owned. And still room left over for the future impulse buys we haven’t admitted to yet.”

“We ended up twirlin’ round like kids in a showroom, already arguin’ over drawer space. She reckons she gets the top ones ‘cause she’s taller. I said that’s discrimination against the vertically challenged.”

“Charlie, bless him, popped his head in to give us the lowdown on the less glamorous stuff. Triple-glazed windows all round, insulation in the walls and roof that’d make a polar bear sweat, and a boiler so efficient it could probably heat the place with a candle and a determined hamster.”

“He said it proudly—‘Toasty winters, cool summers.’ We both nodded like experts, even though neither of us had the faintest clue what a BTU rating really meant.”

“Truth be told, all we cared about was how many hot showers we could run at once before the plumbing staged a mutiny.”

“As for the other eight bedrooms—well, ‘spare room’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. These were more like boutique hotel suites.”

“Yeah, each one kitted out with a queen-sized bed, its own ensuite with a walk-in rain shower, vanity table, wardrobes—the whole lot. Honestly, it looked ready for a surprise royal visit.”

“All stylish, all ridiculously comfortable, and all dangerously good at encouraging lazy mornings. I could already see our guests deciding on ‘extended stays.’”

“Which is posh talk for: they’ll never leave.”

“Then we headed up into the attic—still carpeted but with plastic wrap down, painters buzzing about like artists finishing off their masterpiece.”

“Up here was the nerve centre for the whole house—boiler, hot and cold tanks, and enough pipes neatly laid out to impress even a submarine engineer. All tidy, all accessible.”

“Off the landing, four more rooms. The two at the front already had bunk beds and wardrobes fitted—perfect for grandkids, surprise visitors, or anyone who doesn’t mind duckin’ their head under a sloped ceiling.”

“The middle two we marked down as storage. At least, that was the plan. Johan had already muttered something about turning one into a model railway den.”

“We decided the best course of action was to pretend we hadn’t heard him. Safer that way.”

“We were positively giddy with excitement. The new house was everything we’d dreamed of and more—like stepping into a country manor fantasy someone had built to spec just for us.”