L'escale

Friday 12 August

A warm and sunny morning inspired the Mate to suggest hoisting the mainsail while still at anchor. Unfortunately the wind rose quickly and by the time the anchor was weighed she needed to gybe the mainsail to follow the channel, while the Skipper was still busy at the bow. Gybing me safely is a two-handed job as the mainsail needs to be pulled hard in, I’m turned through the wind and the sail is then let out gently on the other side, so it all got a bit tricky for a while. We sailed out into the open sea alongside a traditional barge, who kept pace with us until we spent a long time taking in a reef as the wind continued to build, while her gaff rig held her angle to the wind – an interesting illustration of traditional design for local conditions over a modern ‘go anywhere’ sail plan. Mid-evening found us in the most industrial landscape so far, at the mouth of the River Medway in Kent, marshy flatlands against a backdrop of power stations, docks and wind turbines. Once again we anchored in our own private creek.

Thursday 11 August

Today was one of those days that began like it wasn’t going to go to plan, and then didn’t but ended up being much better. Mate woke up early to grey windy skies and rain, but by the time Skipper surfaced the weather was improving and the bike bags were lugged across our (absent) neighbour’s deck to be built on the pontoon, ready for a lift from the obliging water taxi. The crew left me to snooze and went off to Beth Chatto’s garden in Elmstead Market, a pleasant cycle ride of about eight miles through Essex country lanes.

Apparently the gravel garden is unusual and particularly stunning, begun as an experiment in the owner’s quest to put the right plant in the right place. Designed with drought-tolerant plants and not irrigated, it offers ideas and inspiration to gardeners wanting to adapt to the effects of climate change, whilst achieving beauty and harmony in their horticultural environments.

After a light lunch and a little retail therapy, the intrepid duo set off on a different route home, the result of the Mate’s research on Google Maps. They stopped off at a well-stocked farm shop to fill the panniers with a selection of goodies, and continued down a long hill to Alresford Creek. The map showed the Ford of the name…but the road petered out to a gravel track that ended on the soft, muddy banks of the creek, definitely not crossable on wheels. Undaunted except by the thought of the long push back up the hill to rejoin the main road, Skipper applied his iPhone to the task of finding an alternative route, soon determining a footpath along the water’s edge. They set off through summer-long grass, following the top edge of a dyke, the words “mad woman” heard at regular intervals. The bikes are designed for this type of terrain(!), it was very peaceful and the Mate identified four black-tailed godwit feeding in the mud. Eventually they reached the head of the creek at Tide Mill, complete with leat running from the millpond and a wooden water wheel. At the top of the track leading to the road was a gate with a notice…prohibiting cycles. On the way back into Brightlingsea a supermarket was raided for yet more provisions, and they arrived home worn out from a round trip of 20 miles. They filled my tanks up with fresh water and we went back to Pyefleet Channel to anchor for one last night.

Wednesday 10 August

The crew were up early this morning to make sure I could get out of our creek while there was still enough water, and to catch the best winds, forecast for earlier in the day.  It’s definitely beginning to feel like Autumn’s on its way, and the sailing was easy and good today, first on a comfortable reach and then they goosewinged my sails and we drifted along for a while.  Creamy scrambled eggs served with Marmite toast underway was pretty impressive too, but unfortunately the barista service let the whole image slip, as coffee was lamentably slow due to the distraction of a fishing rod.  I played tag with the stunning East Coast barge, Pioneer, as we drew towards Brightlingsea, and then they headed off towards the Blackwater.  Suddenly the wind picked up from nothing to 17 knots, so we ended the passage on a high, and were anchored in time for lunch.  Afterwards they took me in to the harbour for fuel, and for them to have fish and chips (again) for supper.

Tuesday 9 August

Skipper braved an unreliable outboard engine to go in search of a replacement cooking gas cylinder, while Mate set to for a little spring cleaning – overdue, as I do like to feel fresh inside and out.  Soon we were ready to leave the Deben and cruise alongside Felixstowe beach, so I could see where my crew had cycled yesterday.  It was good to stretch my sailing legs again, ready for more motor cruising as we made our way into another area of low-lying marshland, where you can follow creeks miles inland.  At high water the land floods to resemble lakes: this is Walton Backwaters, named Secret Water by  Arthur Ransome  in his novel of the same name.  As the Mate grew up with these stories, long before she set foot in a boat, she was delighted to find the real place as evocative and mysterious as it was portrayed by the author.  Once again my anchor was dropped in a lovely private sheltered creek, with just the wild water birds for company.

Monday 8 August

Mate finds the constant noise of wind and waves very wearing, so the crew decided it was time to make landfall and take some exercise. The eponymous ferry collected my people, their bikes and panniers, the rubbish and recycling and deposited them ashore for a ride into Felixstowe. It was apparently far less windy on land, and the sun shone at times. They rode along the seafront, nearly as far as the docks that define the skyline for miles around. They filled their panniers with provisions and enjoyed elegant architecture in an atmosphere of both genteel wealth and seaside town, before following the shoreline track back to the Ferry (hamlet), a total distance of almost 20km, for afternoon tea before the ferry (boat) ride home. The ferryman seemed bemused by my name, wondering why my owners would choose something French…

Sunday 7 August

While pegging out another load of washing and watching for the local seal, two swimmers stopped to chat and a peacock butterfly dropped by.  The shoreline looked as inviting as a Greek bay, with a narrow sandy strip backed by Scots pine, but the crew stayed onboard and soon we were meandering up-channel through clusters of moorings and past a round church tower and towering haystacks.  The Maybush at Waldringfield was buzzing with weekend trippers, and many vessels enjoying this picturesque river meant great concentration was required by the helm.  As the channel narrowed towards Woodbridge and the Tide Mill Marina, the crew prepared me for a berth, but on arrival it became all too clear that I’m just too big, especially in the still strong winds.  This time it was Skipper’s turn to overload on stress, and we turned tail and made our way back down towards the same anchorage, as emergency rations of ginger beer and biscuits were issued to calm frayed nerves.

 

On our return to The Rocks, conditions were still less than calm, so we carried on downriver.  The kind harbour master at Felixstowe Ferry promised us that the last available visitor’s buoy “had our name on it”, and we found a much more sheltered spot to rest and recuperate.

Saturday 6 August

Well, I guess the honeymoon period had to end eventually, and the atmosphere has been remarkably harmonious so far, for two adults constantly in each other’s company in a space smaller than their daughter’s studio flat.  The day started well, with only a very short passage planned, in weather perfect for a much longer sail.  Whilst waiting for sufficient rise of tide to enter our next river, the Deben, Skipper decided it was a good time to practise some safety drills.  First the crew tried to get me to ‘heave to’, when my sails are set at opposite angles to the wind so I go nowhere.  This involves crash tacking, which sounds more painful than it really is, but I am a sailing yacht and I can sail even with my jib backed, so they raised my centreboard so I was less responsive to the tide.  It sort of worked, but needs a lot more practice in various conditions.  Next we looked at MOB (man overboard) drill, Mate’s personal worst nightmare, as she’s likely to be left onboard to carry out this manoeuvre, Skipper having been thrown off the coachroof whilst attending to sails at the mast or bow.  She soon realised there’d be an awful lot to do, and whilst these exercises highlight changes that need to be incorporated into safety equipment and procedures, she feels justified in nagging about the wearing of harnesses, and essentially NOT FALLING OFF.  By now in a state of imminent meltdown and threatening mutiny from the Mate, Skipper decided enough ‘locals’ were heading into the Deben that we should follow their lead, but with full sail up and the board fully down we were not exactly prepared to enter a narrow channel and a sneaky sandbank soon reared up to scrape my board and/or rudder blades.  Eventually a measure of calm was restored as the genoa was furled away so I slowed down, Trevva was fired up and the mainsail dumped into its bag along the boom.  We dropped anchor at The Rocks, but it was busy with weekend traffic and exposed to the wind blowing across the salt marshes, so not our most peaceful anchorage.  My crew did find some space to talk through the experience, and work out how to improve communications for the next one.

Friday 5 August

A warm and calm day for a potter upriver, following the channel carefully.  Of course we found the ideal anchorage just around the bend, where we would have been better sheltered earlier in the week, but we all survived the test, and can put it down to experience.The scenery was classic Constable country, with pretty cattle grazing right at the water’s edge…is that how they make salt beef?

Even carefully following the withies supposedly marking the channel, I still touched bottom just above Iken, so we called it a day and turned back while the crew enjoyed an alfresco lunch.  Mate put on her helpful hat again by calling the head boatman at Aldeburgh YC to organise rescue for two young boys we passed standing on the upturned hull of their dinghy.  They had capsized with the spinnaker up and the boat had turned turtle and got her mast stuck in the mud.  They looked a bit sheepish but otherwise unscathed, and the safety boat was soon with them.

We pulled into the Yacht Club pontoon where they welcomed us as “the largest boat we’ve ever had alongside here” and kindly helped us take on water, while the Mate chatted with one of the members about cruising in Norway, which I believe is in the plans for sometime in the future.  We also gained local knowledge about leaving the river (on the seaward side, with some flood running to lift me off if I get stuck!)  We nestled in the anchorage in Abraham’s Bosum near the bottom of the Ore, but didn’t spot any avocet, which are supposed to live there.

Thursday 4 August

As I observed yesterday, the wind has a mind of its own, but for my crew today that was a good thing.  The weather forecast warned that yesterday’s strong winds would continue today, but in fact they had blown themselves out, and so the tender was prepared and I watched the Mate attempt to row them ashore for provisions, and to stretch their legs.  Fortunately there was room in my little sister for them to take the smelly rubbish bag and recycling away with them, as well as giving Bertha an outing.  They walked along a dyke at the edge of the river and followed the footpath across the marshland into Aldeburgh, a pretty and well-appointed town enjoying the holiday sunshine.  On their return the crew found far too many flies buzzing around me, a consequence of being near land, but enjoyed another beautiful sunset.

Wednesday 3 August

Skipper justified his insistence with the boatyard about the need for a bigger anchor today, as my 30kg Spade held me securely in the river in near gale force winds and waves a metre high and only a metre apart, due to the shallowness of the water.  The Mate was busy baking during the morning, which is just as well as, once the tide turned, she found it difficult to do any more than lie below porthole level where my tossing and slewing around was less evident.  I am a big boat and I have high windage, so I tend to lie across the wind when a tide is running, and this can make my poor crew feel quite uncomfortable.  There’s also a lot of noise when it’s windy and waves slap constantly at my hull.  At times like this I know my crew are glad that tides change direction around every six hours, although the wind tends to do its own thing.

Once conditions had calmed down a washing up marathon was completed and smoked haddock enjoyed for supper.  My water tanks are feeling a little dry, so I hope they can top me up soon – I can carry 550 litres, but they still seem to go through it quickly.