Sunday 31 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 26 to 28

Day 26 – If there is one thing we are learning about on our travels around Britain it is the relative merits and demerits of marinas and harbours. You could almost call us expert, in fact, since inevitably we do compare facilities between one and another. We have a scale of merit, for example, for showers. To score ten points they must be hot, spacious, clean and of course free. We accept that it is unlikely we are ever going to find a ten-pointer but this is nevertheless something all showers should aspire to.

When is comes to the cost of berthing there is very much a north-south divide, the south coast of England being almost guaranteed to be the most costly. One might perhaps expect there to be some correlation between the price being charged and the quality of the facilities, whether these be showers or something as simple as the state of repair of the pontoons but this is not so at all. Many ports seem to base their charges more on the basis of what they can get away with and when you are coming in from a turbulent sea naturally the last thing on your mind is the price of a safe haven.

It is the practice of charging multihulls (catamarans and trimarans) more than other boats that we really take issue with. The justification always given is that these boats are wider than others and therefore they take up the space of one and a half or two other vessels. Very often this may be true but Cirrus Cat, whilst being a catamaran, is not a wide boat. At a little under four and a half metres she is less wide than many modern monohull sailing boats and certainly narrower than most large powerboats. Yet she is a multihull and many marinas will impose the additional charge regardless of this fact.

The most glaring example of this practice we find today in Scarborough Harbour where the list of charges makes it clear that any multihull wider than three metres must be charged at a higher rate. I look around the marina now and can see that most of the yachts are wider than this but having only one hull means they are paying less than we are. My attempts at arguing this point to the berthing master fall on deaf ears, however. We feel unwelcome in Scarborough, pariahs even. It is the most expensive harbour we have stayed at so far this year (charging more than anywhere on the south coast) and the shower and toilet facilities are the worst, by a significant margin. Even after finding a shower that delivered hot water I could only give it one point at best. I would recommend this harbour to no-one In fact I would advise yachtsman to stay away from this port if at all possible. Or maybe they already are - the visitor pontoon is after all nearly empty.

Day 27 – And so, at an early hour, and after pleasant dreams inspired by the delicious sweet potato pie Kate made for dinner the night before, we bid farewell to Scarborough and its hoards of holidaymakers with their needy children and their scruffy little dogs.


We turn left out of the port and head straight into some horrible steep waves which toss us around like a cork but the fierce current generating them carries us through quickly, though not before a few splashes of sea had found their way into one of our open hatches. Chastened, we plod on towards Hartlepool in rather more benign conditions. An early start always means a cool start, the day never really seems to get going before ten in the morning, but our arrival at Hartlepool around one in the afternoon was greeted by powerful sunshine making up for what we missed earlier. Motoring along in company with Paul Hardaker, who had a date to keep with the press covering his trip, made a pleasant change for us and gave us someone to chat with on the radio along the way. The wind was not unkind, being just another northerly, but we have had rather too much motoring than suits us. Our ever-reliable weather-forecasters promise that tomorrow will bring a big change, a wind from the south to blow us to Scotland.

Day 28 – Sooner or later this practice of getting up early in the morning to go sailing will seem like normal behaviour. On balance, though, I suspect it will be later.

Having locked out of Hartlepool we are determined to get our sails up and get along without the engine if we can.

The swelly sea does not make this easy, however, as it shakes the light southerly wind from the sails and at first we are making little progress. We persevere and after an hour or so there are some ripples on the water which tell us this will be a spinnaker day, and up it goes. By the time we pass Tynemouth, Cirrus is beginning to blast along and we coast through the ship anchorage, dodging left and right so as not to bump into anything big. These are car carriers, which bring new cars into the country by the deck-load, large floating steel boxes with few concessions to beauty.

We sail on with the wind increasing and the sea rising until just before Coquet Island when it is time to snuffle our brightly coloured sail, to control it before it tries to control us. These are like home waters to us, bringing back memories of our first sailing boat, Noggin The Nog, which we used to moor in the river at Amble. Many’s the time we sailed out with our three young children on board to face the enormous waves, maybe the same ones that we rolled through today. We were novices then, knowing no better than to go out when the mist hung over the island and there were breakers across the bar at the entrance to Amble Harbour. In many ways the place hasn’t changed at all – the puffins still wheel around us at sea, little wings flapping madly and feet paddling the sea frantically as they try to get out of our way -although now there is a fine marina at Amble where there was none before.

Paul arrives in port soon after us, tired out after enduring the wind and waves. His is a massive challenge to undertake, to sail alone around Britain, and we have great admiration for what he is doing. He has been great company for us too and Finley’s singing and whistling has been a delight.

Friday 29 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 24 and 25

Day 24 – There are no permanent staff in the Humber Cruising Association clubhouse bar so its opening hours depend on a member being around with time to spare and a key to open up. When it does open, as you would expect, the bar acts like a magnet to sailors whose boats are scattered around the No.2 Fish Dock on the long pontoons which make up the marina complex. These are connected to the shore at only one point, however, making it a long walk if you are berthed farthest away. But there is a collection of bikes on a rack near the shore ramp which can be used by anyone and can save a lot of walking. Some caution is clearly advised after a few drinks at the bar because if one wheel were to swerve off the pontoon edge in the dark then the water would swallow both the rider and the bike and nobody would be any the wiser.

It is here in Grimsby that we bump into two other round Britain sailors. Paul Hardaker started from Liverpool in May and like us is turning left at every corner. He and his pet parrot, ‘Finley’, are on a sponsored sail for Crohn’s and Colitis Charity and have experienced all sorts of adventures on their passage - they are only half way round! A week ago, Finley, who is quite talkative, bluffed his way out of his cage and flew off to explore Grimsby but his navigation (or his loyalty) did not equip him for finding his way home again. Paul is very attached to the bird and eventually had to offer a reward for Finley’s safe return so that they can continue their journey together. Paul keeps his own blog at which has video clips he makes as he sails along.

We also meet Jean-Pierre, once a harbourmaster at La Rochelle in France, who has sailed his yacht ‘St Kilda’ an incredible distance this year to Morocco, Madeira, the Azores, Ireland, Scotland, finally touching the East Coast of England. He has different crew join him along the way and is now in Grimsby waiting for parts to repair the gooseneck on his boom (technical language, but English) before sailing off to Ostend and eventually home again. Chatting with Jean-Pierre and the current crew on board, speaking French as best we can over drinks in the club bar, we are treated to the holiday snaps of AndrĂ©, whose family live on the Isle of RĂ©union in the Indian Ocean, and the feisty politics of Maryse who has a few sailing adventures of her own behind her.

Our own movements are, as ever, controlled by the weather and we spot a window of opportunity appearing tomorrow which should enable us to sail north again to Scarborough.

Day 25 – The River Humber has these cute little yellow ships which are forever chugging along…. but going nowhere....

...or so it seems. They are in fact buoys which mark the edges of the shipping lane but when you pass them by it looks just as if they are motoring upstream on their own. In reality we know they are anchored to the bottom of the river and it is the water that passes them by but somehow they have a sad and lonely look about them, forever on a voyage to nowhere.

It is a relief to be out of the river and away from any possibility of meeting a super-tanker or a massive car-carrier coming towards us and we turn north past Spurn Head towards another headland, Flamborough. Today, by contrast to previous days, there is almost no wind at all at six in the morning and the sea is a shining plate of silver jelly that wobbles only to a faint swell. It is hazy, however, and this thickens into a sea level mist which swallows us up and forces us to strain our eyes forward to pick up the randomly scattered floats of lobster pots which lie in our path. The one we miss is the one that will tangle in our propeller so we are constantly vigilant.

By midday the sun has burnt its way through to sea level and we can see Flamborough ahead but our favourable tide has now turned against us, the water now rushing back southwards past us. Progress becomes slow, like swimming through glue, and the hours tick by. We languish around the deck in the sunshine, a light cooling breeze making life pleasant on Cirrus’s foredeck while the cockpit becomes an oven. Gradually the miles pass by as Flamborough’s eroded white cliffs disappear behind us and at last Scarborough emerges from the haze ahead.

Quite quickly, however, a dark line of cloud rises from the northern horizon and just as we are closing the harbour entrance the wind arrives, as if from nowhere, and we quickly pull on our jackets for protection. We struggle the last few yards into harbour and tie up alongside the visitor pontoon, greatly relieved to be in port and out of the icy blast.

Berthed just ahead of us here is Paul Hardaker’s yacht which left Grimsby the day before us. He spends the evening with us on board bringing Finley with him so we can get to know this lovely bird.

At first Finley is a little shy but by the end of the night he shows us his best side as he poses for his own photograph.

The northerly wind howls in the rigging all night. This really was a small window which we have grabbed to move ourselves a few miles along our way.

Tuesday 26 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 22 and 23

Day 22/23 – The alarm goes off at 0530hrs and we both struggle towards consciousness and the realisation that we have to get up, to get ourselves out of our cosy warm bed to go out into that cold world outside. It is quiet, thank goodness, which means that there is little or no wind blowing. In an ideal world we would want wind, of course, but only so long as it is going our way. For the past four days it has blown steadfastly from a northerly direction so having no wind at all is a welcome relief from this, perfectly acceptable for us. We are about to embark on a passage around a long stretch of coastline which has no safe havens for us to pop into, no ports offering a guarantee of safety should we have need. We must cover a distance of ninety three nautical miles (these are slightly longer than the land ones) around the north-eastern shoulder of East Anglia then head off across the Wash to a landfall in the River Humber, the welcoming arms of Grimsby in fact. With no wind at all this will mean motoring the whole way, not ideal, but the trade off for this is often a flat sea. We know, however, it is unlikely that no wind at all will blow – it is rarely still at sea for long – so we have to hope that whatever does come our way treats us gently.

Once underway we realise that there is some wind, a light westerly blowing off the land but outside the harbour there is also a heavy swell coming from the north-east still lingering from the depression that has been driving our weather for the last week. This is now centred over Denmark. So off we go along the coast to Great Yarmouth, which looks like a supply centre for the wind farms – towers and blades are stacked up just inside the harbour like giant Lego pieces, then staying close inshore past Caister and on past the long and uninteresting line of dunes that protect the Norfolk Broads from the sea, always keeping our eyes peeled for the naturist beach which is along here somewhere. We see a man walking his dog, the dog being naked, but perhaps this doesn’t qualify, and the day was turning out to be a dull one anyway, the wind sneaking in from the north-west now, just where we want to go.

From Cromer (lighthouse flashing once every five seconds, even in daylight) we slant away from the coast, plugging on into the waves using sails and engine, everything we’ve got. The Wash is a shallow expanse of sea dotted with wind farms and gas rigs, shoals occurring at random across our path and the deep swell soon being overlaid with short waves that Cirrus really doesn’t like. Like all catamarans she is quite light and cannot drive through the waves like many yachts do and soon we are being tossed up and down till our knees start to ache and our necks are sore. Ten or twelve knots of wind is not a lot (the forecasters call this ‘light and variable’), force three or four if you know your Beaufort, but after nineteen hours of it full in our faces we have both had enough.

Kate: By the grace of strong tides we made it in at about 2 a.m. this morning and I for one am not a pretty sight. Our bones are still humming with the vibration of the engine through the soles of our feet and the waves were dumping bucket-fulls over the boat right up until we entered Grimsby Fish Dock. I dreaded entering the Humber at night – it’s very difficult to see how far off the lights are, ships and buoys.


The chart tells you which lights flash which colour and the sequence but when that is complicated by other lights and vessels and you are in the recommended yacht passage, you don’t get the same view as the big boys. Speaking of which – we were entering the fish dock channel when a large monster ship started heading our way. We were near the large ship channel but he came incredibly close, nudged by a tug. The depth under us was less than six metres so we couldn’t believe there was enough water where he was. Malcolm steered bravely on, unable to steer too far away from the ship because of a shoal to port. Believe me, everything is surreal after such a long trip and the magic of the dark monsters. When you go in you call up ‘Fish Dock Island’ on VHF channel 74. The man said, “Come in sir, it’s all clear”. There was a gap, to the left of the gap was a beacon flashing red, to the right of the beacon the large monster ship could be seen wriggling through like a very large lady attempting to pass through a turnstile. To me it seemed like an act of faith to go through the gap to the left of the beacon but Malcolm steered through and the lock keeper could see us and guided us over the radio.

This is the second time in a few days that we have seen tugs steering impossibly ungainly floating lumps around, very skilfully. Kate’s brother Jamie sent us this story from where he lives in Australia: ’Your description of the tug boat skilfully handling a large boat in small space reminded me of the recent Brisbane floods. A very large, and heavy (weighing several tonnes), portion of the floating walk/cycleway at Newfarm, an inner Brisbane suburb, broke away at the height of the floods. It rambled on downstream heading for the bay and freedom. The only thing in its path were the twin bridges at the Gateway motorway. As it continued on its merry way engineers feared the worst. Such a large structure striking the bridge pylons could bring down the bridge. As the saga continued on live television a small, old, tug suddenly appeared and started gently nudging the serpent like structure. It darted backward and forward until it managed to swing the walkway into something remotely resembling a 100 metre long canoe. Having completed this they skilfully guided this through between the pylons and out of harms way. All this in raging flood waters littered with debris including boat pontoons and boats drifting along. The two tug boat Captains have recently received an Australian award for services rendered. They still didn't grasp what all the fuss was about. They saw the thing on TV and decided they'd better take the tug out, end of story!’

Sunday 24 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 17 to 21

Day 17 – Faced with the prospect of spending several days here in Lowestoft we checked with the harbour master to make sure we were berthed in the right place.

But thirty minutes after having assured us everything was OK he came over to our pontoon and explained that a rather large and very solid looking old ship was about to be manoeuvred past our pontoon and it may be safer if we took Cirrus out of the way for a short time. Of course, an hour earlier it had been calm but by this time the wind was whistling past us so our own manoeuvres were quite exciting, let alone what was shortly to be happening just upwind of us. But if we wanted a stunning example of what a professional tug-master can do, this was it. We felt like applauding after he had shunted the large and ungainly ship through a gap barely wider than the vessel itself and tucked it away behind a pontoon with no fuss or bother at all.

We wandered off to explore Lowestoft and much to our surprise soon found, beyond the ‘standard’ High Street' with its repetitions of shops found in every town in the country, another older model which harked back to an earlier age. Here the buildings are small and narrow by comparison, but varied, Elizabethan timbers jutting out over the street next door to a much later brick tenement. Here we found a shop selling square-rigged sailing ships which could be flown like a kite, a barber's shop complete with striped pole and a place offering computer repairs. Then, leading off between these houses are a series of narrow alleys known as Scores, many of which have steps leading down towards the sea which are enclosed with local flint stone walls. There is Crown Score, Herring Fishery Score, Rant Score and Frost’s Alley Score, to name but a few, all of which would have led down to the original fishing port. Names like this are just dripping history, most of which we will never know.

It was fishing that inspired the construction of many of Britain’s coastal harbours, something that is noticeably diminished today and I have commented before on how many of the small north-east coastal fishing ports have turned towards leisure boating for their livelihoods by laying pontoons for visiting yachts, thus breathing new life into their towns. But since our last passage around the country in 2009 there is evidence of a new industry which is giving old ports a new lease of life – the wind farms. New sites for these, forests of giant ‘windmills’, have sprung up along the south coast, in the Thames estuary and in the Wash and for both their construction and ongoing maintenance or repair this means more boat traffic coming into and out of ports. We noted this particularly in Ramsgate where there were many more vessels going in and out at all times of the day and night. Then in the near future we can expect tidal generators to appear as well, making use of the strong currents around our coasts, the same ones that we try to take advantage of when we are sailing. This will mean even more boat traffic (and also more things to avoid when out sailing). We have the feeling that we are witnessing the birth of a new age, something that is transforming our country, and particularly our country’s coastline, right in front of our eyes.

Just as a matter of interest, there is a generator tower mounted onshore close to the harbour here in Lowestoft which apparently is known as ‘Gulliver’. Does this mean that all such towers have names, I wonder?

Days 18 to 21 – The Royal Norfolk & Suffolk Yacht Club, in whose marina we are now berthed, is an ancient and worthy body. It seems the club was formed in 1859 to try to control the behaviour of yacht crews of the time who took their competitiveness rather too far by fighting with opposing yacht crews rather than trying to out-sail them. Things grew from there and in 1903 the present clubhouse, an imposing local landmark, was built at a cost of £4,500. Today, when entering the clubhouse lobby for the first time one immediately begins to suspect that time has somehow slowed down inside the walls whilst life continued outside at a different pace. There are many startling and astonishingly well preserved features which can only be of great vintage and for which, it is clear, no expense can have been spared.


The one that really made my jaw drop is in a place only ever frequented by gentlemen (and I use this word in the very proper sense), the toilet. The urinal is by Twyfords, its porcelain preserved precisely as when it was first minted, and the polished copper cistern hanging above, which bears an engraved club crest, is a masterpiece of Victoriana worthy of the British Museum. I hope I am not breaking any club rules by revealing all in this photo.

There is also an atmosphere to the clubhouse which is clearly enjoyed and encouraged by many of the members, that belongs in a timeless world of its own. Appropriate dress is something that is seen as something important, to the point that our own over-casual apparel leaves us feeling rather intimidated. I don’t have a blazer to my name, I confess, and if I did it is unlikely that we would deem it an essential piece of equipment to have on board the boat. An evening visit to the club bar makes me realise just how wrong I am in taking this view.

None of the above should detract, however, from what is undoubtedly a successful and thriving club which offers excellent facilities to any visiting yachtie, whatever the cut of their jib. This is our second visit here (we stopped here in 2009) and were it not for its remote easterly location, we would make many more visits. Better still, perhaps the whole structure can be transplanted nearer to our home so that we might revel in the timelessness whilst studying the sepia prints of lateen-rigged sailing yachts in days long gone.

Our luck with the wind since Plymouth has finally run out and like a number of other yachts, we are now hunkered down waiting for the fresh northerlies to moderate a little and let us move on. We take the opportunity to shop, to touch up some varnish and to explore the town a little more. One of the nice things about staying in port is the opportunity it creates to meet and get to know others who are travelling about in similar circumstances, others who have committed themselves to a life aboard a boat. David and Trisha have a lovely boat called Lioness in which they have travelled extensively over the last 10 years or so. This year they had set off, like us, to sail around the British coast anticlockwise but back in May whilst coming into Lowestoft Harbour their propeller became tangled on a piece of a rope which caused considerable damage to the engine and gearbox. Extensive repairs have now been carried out but this has held them up and they will not be able to complete their round Britain circuit this year. They are not deterred, of course, and will start again next year hoping for better luck.

We are ready to move on now, fuel tank topped up (since leaving Plymouth our engine has burnt only thirty litres of diesel!) and food laid in for the next few days at least. We have a long passage ahead, across the Wash to Grimsby, and it will be an early start to take advantage of the tide up the coast.

Thursday 21 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 13 to 16

Day 13 – Two days of living and sleeping on land is about what it takes for us to get our land legs back and for the world to stop bouncing about. Then we return to Ramsgate Harbour to find Cirrus still leaping about wildly along with all the other boats in the harbour, so our legs have to learn all over again. A full gale is blowing now. Even the cross-channel ferries have stopped running, and it takes a lot for them to give up and go home. Catamarans don’t, of course, lean over, but the monohull yachts in harbour are all leaning one way just with the pressure of the wind on their masts, as if gravity has taken leave of its senses. The forecast chart shows that the depression giving us this weather, currently centred over Middlesbrough, will move eastwards over the next few days and eventually things will calm down. When it does then there will be a mass exodus of boats, everyone who has been pinned down in port trying to move on at the same time. Summer gales like this are not uncommon and it may be windy but it is not cold so we just have to sit it out and amuse ourselves, keeping our heads low for a while. It is a good time to sit around and read some of the books we have picked up on our travels. Many marinas have a few book shelves tucked away in a corner somewhere which function as a library operated by an unseen and unwritten set of rules. Travelers simply deposit books they have read and take away those that interest them, no tickets needed, no librarians and no fines.

Day 14 – Still in Ramsgate, we spend the day shopping and tidying up the boat. The strong wind continues to blow and by late afternoon we check the forecast model once again to see whether the wind is doing what it should. The noise in the rigging has not abated and dark grey clouds are still marching across the skyline. We note that by midnight, if the prediction is accurate, it will finally quieten down. It helps us to believe in this.

Day 15 – The morning is quiet, as predicted, with just a light southerly breeze, which is not quite as forecast but is fine for us, for we are moving north. But not before we have some serious waving to take care of. First of all there are Chris and Chris who have come over to Ramsgate armed with white hankies.


They nearly miss us there but by the time we reach Broadstairs they have moved onto the pier and are waving away again. At Stone Bay we get a mobile telephone call from Richard telling us where to look onshore so we can wave at him, and there he is, standing on something, or someone tall gesticulating madly. We thought we were done then but just as the coast turns east and we start to move away offshore across the Thames estuary there are Chris and Chris again, arms going like semaphore. We collapse on the deck, our arms exhausted from all the flapping about, but thrilled to think that we have had such a marvellous send off for our journey north.

Hours later we are still glowing as we negotiate the complex of channels and shoals that lie in our path en route to Suffolk and hear a message on the radio saying there will be a ‘Controlled Detonation’ of a mine at a position somewhere near the Gunfleet. We rush to the chart to plot the position to find ourselves only ten miles away, but nevertheless at a safe distance. In the end we did not hear the explosion above our own engine noise but Chris told me later that he did from all the way south in Broadstairs.

We had thought we might miss Essex completely this time round but after six hours under a scorching sun, mostly with the engine thumping away but latterly with our spinnaker drawing us along nicely, we are closing Pye End buoy off Walton-on-the-Naze and decide to head into the Backwaters for the night.

Two miles up stream we drop our anchor into the mud of Hamford Water just as a seal slithers from the bank and heads off for a night’s fishing. Fairy terns hover excitedly over a shoal of fry and up above us a large raptor glides by, eyes peeled for prey. We cannot identify him for certain but we know the Brent geese who are wading in the shallows and the noisy oyster-catchers who screech by us. This spot is just heavenly and to cap it all, the sun puts on a show for us at the close of the day.

Day 16 – Our aim today is to sail north along the Suffolk coast to Lowestoft, not because we particularly like the place, but more because of the forecast northerlies coming our way in the next day or so. But the peace and quiet of our anchorage holds us like glue and whilst chatting with the seal first thing this morning he did seem to be expressing the view that he liked having us here. Maybe he will wave us off.

We leave around midday, which is before the tide turns in our favour and therefore by definition, early, and once across the busy shipping lane which feeds Felixstowe we raise the spinnaker and there it stays for the next thirty eight miles. We fly along with the wind right behind us and once past Orfordness, the tide starts going our way as well so we are moving even faster. We shoot past Aldeburgh doing eight knots (over the ground), people standing on the beach can barely turn their heads quickly enough. Sizewell’s dome shaped nuclear power station appears then disappears behind us and Southwold’s windmill flashes past too. By six o’clock we can see the lone wind turbine that sits on Lowestoft’s pier and we are in harbour by seven, temporary members of the Royal Norfolk and Suffolk Yacht Club with access to their showers. which we make liberal use of.

Sunday 17 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 10 to 12

Day 10 – All it took in the end was one longish day at sea, with an eight o’ clock start, to complete our passage along the south coast of England and turn the next corner (left again). Favourable winds came our way yet again making this a fast passage, past Dungeness with its multiple lighthouses (the sea deposits more land out into the Channel every year leaving the old lighthouses behind and requiring a new one to be built further out) and past the floating drilling rig ‘Rambiz’ which, once we were past it, seemed to follow us around the coast like it was attached by a long piece of string.

The actual corner of the British coastline came just after we had dodged our way through an almost continuous line of cross-channel ferries going into and out of Dover harbour (a stressful little moment on a small boat). It is a simple matter of following the curve of the crumbling white cliffs to move quietly from the English Channel to the North Sea, a place where at first the water is tinted turquoise by the chalk dissolved from the cliffs then, as we close Ramsgate Harbour, it begins to assume the pale brown colour of the silt from the Thames estuary. Nine hours and sixty-four nautical miles after we left Eastbourne we are tying up to a pontoon and we can finally relax. An average speed of seven knots is fast for any sailing yacht of our size but we would not have achieved this without the fair tide running our way for much of the journey.

We are stopping for a while in Ramsgate taking the opportunity to catch up with a few friends and relations and also to let some wet and windy weather pass us by. We do try to avoid deliberately flirting with inclement sailing weather.

Day 11 – The long sea swell on which we were rising and falling at sea yesterday creeps into Ramsgate Harbour to disturb our sleep. Cirrus surges back and forth making a sort of grunting noise each time one of the mooring ropes becomes tight. Sometimes the motion in one direction is reversed so rapidly that our sleep is disturbed, but only slightly, just enough to produce strange dreams.

In the morning my cousin Chris and her husband, also Chris, cycle over from Broadstairs for a visit and we chat on like long lost friends until hunger drives us ashore.


They are both boat and ship fanatics who take a keen interest in the comings and goings of vessels passing through the Dover Straits – and what better place to live for this. They insist on photographing us and Cirrus, so naturally we photograph them too.

By evening we are visiting old haunts in Faversham, first the Elephant then the Phoenix (most pubs here are named after animals, mythical or otherwise), for an excellent evening of ‘craic’ with our friends.

Day 12 – We stay the night with friends Rich and Gerry then meet up again with the same crowd for a long lunch with Richard E. in celebration of his impending retirement. This was originally planned as a ‘Retirement Regatta’ involving lots of messing around on boats in the sheltered waters of the Swale but the weather scuppers these plans by raining for most of the day and keeping us indoors.


By evening the the rain has stopped and the sun is out and glinting off the cherries in the orchard back at Rich & Gerry’s place. Rich has to have firm words about pushing over trees with a black sheep called ‘Hot Horns’. The reasons for the name become obvious when you grab him by the scruff of the neck– the horns are indeed surprisingly warm to the touch.

There is plenty of wind about just now, a little too much for us to be venturing out on Cirrus. Through the Internet we are able to access weather forecasts for at least five days ahead and this gives us a possible sailing windows for the coming week so that we can make our next big jump, crossing the Thames Estuary to Suffolk. Despite the variability of British weather these forecasts have proved to be surprisingly accurate at predicting wind speed and direction and giving us warning of the conditions we are likely to encounter.

Wednesday 13 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 8 and 9

Day 8 – The occasional nugget of feedback we get from followers of this blog is always welcomed here on board Cirrus. And we now know that there are those that are following not just our progress but also that of the weather fronts as they move across our sailing area. So the sudden change between yesterday’s weather and today’s - a complete reversal of wind direction, sunny skies to heavy rain, shorts and T-shirt to jumper and cagoule – prompted some alarm amongst our readers, concerned that we were might be swept right back to the West Country again. Fortunately, being an island race for many centuries does have some advantages, not least of which are that safe harbours litter our coasts and keep out the nasty seas associated with some of our nastier weather.


Brighton marina is one of these although it has not, as it happens, been around very long. It is a very safe haven and tucked in as we are beneath the ‘Frankie & Benny’s’ and the ‘Pizza Express’ with a floating Chinese restaurant almost close enough for us to reach out for a chop suey, with the marina-based housing development behind this then higher still, a flank of chalky cliffs, we could not be more safe. Although we are still floating on the sea and rising and falling with the tide there is not a gale that could touch us here; but thank you all for your concern.

We take advantage of the day off sailing by meeting with family who live not too far away, this being part of the reason for our passage around the coast in this direction. Our eldest, Tony, pops over to stay on board for a couple of nights and, it being my mother’s 89th birthday, I hire a car to drive to Ticehurst and surprise her. (I will not dwell on the navigation difficulties I encounter on this short journey, the absence of road signs at junctions where they might have been useful to me, although I did speculate that perhaps in preparation for an invasion the signage has been deliberately removed. Have I missed this particular piece of news?) Happy Birthday Mum.

Evenings at the marina are when the starlings return. Great flocks of them come sweeping in, swirling around in a spectacular air display of synchronised flying then dramatically swooping down to disappear beneath the piles of the West Quay where we assume they must roost. They are noisy beasts and once they are gone all is quiet for a brief moment, until suddenly they appear again, as if from nowhere, to perform an encore for us. We feel like applauding, but we restrain ourselves.

Day 9 – On the move again, we wave farewell to Tony and leave port, this time to hop along the coast to Royal Sovereign Harbour. This is not just a man-made harbour, it is a town constructed out of nothing, which lies close to but yet separate from the town of Eastbourne. From the sea (always a different viewpoint) we can compare and contrast the two places. The sea front at Eastbourne is typically Victorian, blocks of four and five storey terraced houses all painted white or magnolia, presenting their faces to the sea. This grand facade is a land of hotels and guest houses with amusements along the promenade that have been entertaining visitors for years.

Turn the head and focus upon Royal Sovereign, a settlement of separate brick-built dwellings with steep pitched roofs done in a modern style. We know, from having been here before, that the marina complex lies at the centre, a network of waterways and lagoons connected by walkways and bridges which lift to allow boats to pass. Unlike Eastbourne, Sovereign looks to the marina, not out to sea. There are even boats offering trips around inside the harbour so visitors can gaze up at the surrounding apartments, brick-built with their little balconies, as they pass by. Beyond this the town’s suburbs start but there are shops galore, supermarkets and all the rest all within a short walk, making this place totally self sufficient, needing nothing from its larger neighbour.

So you can take your pick. There are those that would find Sovereign too much for them, too modern and contrived. Equally there are those who would see Eastbourne as a relic of days gone by. There’s no accounting for taste.

Our wind is off the land now, a stiff breeze which whisks us on towards Beachy Head at great speed. The sea is nearly flat so the sensation of movement is almost absent, only a shushing noise from the stern alerts us to the movement. The lighthouse beneath this grand cliff is a relic too now, no longer does it shine out. It has been replaced by a building high above on the cliff top and its bright paintwork is beginning to show evidence of neglect already.

Here we turn a corner (left again) and motor the last few miles into port, finally passing through the lock into the world within a world of Royal Sovereign.

Tuesday 12 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 6 and 7

Day 6 – Today, in the simple process of moving a short distance east along the coast, we put Cirrus and ourselves right in the middle of one of the busiest stretches of water in these isles. And it being a Sunday, it was possibly busier than most other days of the week. For those who don’t know, the Solent is the waterway that separates the Isle of Wight from the mainland and for many years it has seen itself as a sailing Mecca, the place to go or be seen if you are remotely interested in the sport. The result is that on any day, and particularly at weekends, there are sailing boats in every direction, many of them engaged in racing with crews all dangling their legs over the side as the boats lean away from them, but many others simply shuffling about aimlessly from port to port. Everywhere you look there are marinas stuffed with more boats, more still hanging on moorings wherever there is a bit of shelter, and then of course there are visitors like us who are just passing through. It is not just sailing boats either. A phalanx of jet-skiers (at least 12) came past us as we approached Cowes and then there are motor cruisers of all descriptions too, like the one whose French owner had to radio for help when his engine had a broken connecting rod (there are no secrets on VHF radio). For us, on our little catamaran, the contrast between here and the seas around Scotland could not be more marked. Even the Clyde at its most congested comes nowhere close to the Solent. Gazing out ahead of us we see a white forest of sails. The water is continuously being churned up by all these craft and there is the constant need to be alert, to be ready to take avoiding action when someone comes too close. This is not, therefore, the sort of place to have a quiet, restful day out. It is, in our opinion, a place to be avoided, if at all possible.

Had it not been for yesterday’s strong winds we would have done just that, avoided the Solent, by sailing outside of Wight around St. Catherine’s Point. But the southern shores of the Isle offer no safe havens and we would have had to sail right through the night had we chosen this route. The thought of doing that with such a sea running prompted us to select the lesser of the two evils, a passage through the Solent. Hence today we found ourselves right in the thick of things moving from Yarmouth to Gosport.

Day 7 – The winds may have been blowing strongly so far on our journey, but at least they have been coming from the west at a time when we were moving east. Today is scorchingly hot but what wind there is still comes out of the west. This is indeed what we and Cirrus like, a fair wind. Weather forecasts are showing us that after today this will all change and suddenly our eastward progress is going to stall, so to make best progress we leave Gosport late morning and turn left again.

Motoring for a time, once past Selsey Bill we switch off the iron beast and the spinnaker goes up, to float us gently over the almost calm sea. Cirrus just nods to the wavelets and we assume our favourite position on the bow, legs dangling forward just clear of the splash-zone. We have a piece of electronics that can take care of the steering in conditions like this leaving us free to lounge about in the sun… whilst keeping watch, of course.

The hours roll by and we sit around reading, eating, making cups of tea and occasionally tending the sails until away in the distance Brighton marina creeps into view. We radio ahead for a berth then motor slowly around to pontoon No.6, tucked away in one corner. This is a busy place and we are positioned just below a row of marina-facing restaurants and bars, whose clientele all observe our berthing manoeuvres, no doubt waiting for us to lose control of the boat. We disappoint them.

Sunday 10 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland days 3 to 5

Day 3 – The rain from yesterday finally moved away from Plymouth leaving us with only the wind to cope with. Trying to sleep on board Cirrus this meant listening to the bump and grind of fenders against the hull all night long, this not being the most sheltered of marinas. Somehow, eventually, the mind shuts it out and a broken sleep does come along.

Slightly less wind greeted us by morning but we knew that outside port we would find a rough sea waiting for us. An Irish depression (meteorologically speaking) is still swirling around and pushing Atlantic swells right up the English Channel so we had a fair idea what to expect once we were out of the shelter of land. Great lumps of water were jumping about wildly in all directions making life as unpleasant as possible for yachtsmen and tossing our little boat around every way it could. In short, it was a horrible piece of sea but even so we set off into it, turned left outside Plymouth and after an hour the sun brightened the day, warming us up and even bringing out our first dolphin, a small beast which popped up for a glimpse at us before swimming away.

At 1530 we sail into Dartmouth. There is little more to be said of the passage apart from noting our discomfort at the condition of the sea. The new echo sounder had a lot to say, however, and very loudly too (at least this is how it seems with its large numbers, like visual shouting). Was the gadget, being shown here by Kate, designed for the visually impaired, I wonder? Also please note that she is fully protected against the sun, dolphins and rough seas.

Once anchored in the ‘sheltered’ middle of the River Dart, gusts of wind immediately start blasting in from the sea and we realise we have been fortunate to avoid this whilst at sea. Much more of this with rain too is forecast for later.

Day 4 – The rain arrives at around two in the morning, wind too. To get the full picture of life aboard a boat at anchor here one has to realise that we are attached to the mud at the bottom of a fast flowing river by a length of heavy chain. The tide in the river flows one way then the other and the wind, in the narrow valley that is Dartmouth Harbour, comes in fierce gusts, generally following the line of the valley. The anchor chain is therefore being pulled one way or another depending on which is stronger, tide or wind and as it scrapes across the bottom of the river the rumbling sound this makes is transmitted upwards into the hull, adding to all the other noises of the night – the howling of the wind, the splashing of water against the hull, etc. The phrase “Quiet night at anchor” does not apply well to these circumstances.

At a more reasonable time of day we emerge into the grey daylight.

Heavy black clouds hover over Dartmouth so we sit around and watch all the activity on the river, feeling smug about being safely tucked in here. The harbourmaster comes by for his dues and he gives us a neatly printed weather forecast for the days ahead which tells us we have fair winds and weather to come. We designate today as a lazy one, and I make the porridge for breakfast.

Our position in the centre of the river between the shores of Dartmouth and Kingswear gives us a panoramic view few experience.

We notice, for example, that the residents of Kingswear are trying to replicate the colours of Tobermory on their houses. Boats small and large continually move about us, ferries, water taxis, dinghies, and then towards the end of the day a pair of ancient French working boats crewed by exuberant youngsters hoist sail for departure.

Day 5 – Creeping out of Dartmouth at 0620 we met the first wave of the day just outside the rocky entrance. The last one met us over twelve hours later just outside Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight. It was a fair wind all the way, somewhat stronger than the forecasters promised us but this just meant we sailed faster than expected, especially when the spinnaker went up the mast and Cirrus took off like a scalded rabbit.

Here is me steering at speed. The white stuff behind me is, well, white water.

So what do we feel like after twelve hours on a lively sea in a speeding cat? Pretty tired. But we are also quite proud of ourselves, pleased to have got so far in one day and that we coped OK with the roughest day at sea for many a month. Also delighted to have passed our nemesis, Portland Bill, without encountering the dreaded race. Yarmouth will deliver us a little peace and quiet tonight (once the over-excited oldsters on the yacht beside us are put to bed). Tomorrow, our plan is to meander along the Solent as far as Portsmouth where we can stock up with one or two necessities. Somewhere along the way today our anchor light flipped overboard and was lost. It is, in fact, nothing more than a garden light which sits in a bracket on the stern rail charging up its batteries from a little solar cell on top. A small adaptation enables us to hang it in the rigging at night. These lights are easy to replace - less than a fiver at any good garden store.

This is the first view of the Isle of Wight on a windy day.

Wednesday 6 July 2011

Cornwall to Scotland day 1 & 2

Day 1 - From the boatyard slip at Millbrook we motor to a safe spot on the river just across from Plymouth, somewhere from where we can watch the city but not get too involved with it, and drop the anchor off the bow into a soft muddy bottom only a few metres below. By morning it is raining (we are in Cornwall after all) and the wind has shifted around to the south-west. This is a good breeze to send us on our way but before we can use it we have some important jobs to take care of on board.

We motor across to Mayflower Marina and berth alongside a pontoon. We have a long list of tasks to be done and another of things to buy, an assortment of bits and pieces we could not carry with us or that now need renewing. One job is to clean out Cirrus’ water tanks. We have one of these fitted low down in each hull and the task involves filling them to the brim then adding some sterilising powder. Hours later they are pumped out, refilled again with fresh water and pumped out again. Each tank holds more than thirty gallons (125 litres) which basically means we pump until our arms fall off then start all over again on the other tank.

While I am away trying to buy an oil filter for the engine Kate washes our decks of most of the detritus a winter ashore has deposited there. The transformation is striking, to us, who knew how bad the mess was and Cirrus looks smart and ready to go. Our boat is now over thirty years old but structurally she is as strong as she ever was. Some of the equipment, however, which is less old, has begun to let us down. One thing that is nice to know when we are out sailing is the depth of the water beneath us but our echo sounder now refuses to divulge this information no matter what I do or how nicely I speak to it.

Day 2 - We check the forecast for the next few days ahead and can see a small depression over Ireland which is going to dump some rain here later today. So it’s off to the shops early to stock up with provisions and invest our pennies in a new echo sounder then back to the boat just in time to hide from the rain, torrential rain, which arrives early afternoon. Crawling through the smaller spaces inside the hull to run a new transponder cable I can hear the rain beating a tattoo above my head but finally, as the rain eases, the echo sounder starts talking to us again.

We have decided now to sail east up the English Channel then turn left (north) for Scotland, not the quickest way home but one that will enable us to meet up with friends and family en route. It is also the coast that is most familiar to us from years ago. All is set now, plans laid for an early departure in the morning, so off we go to the marina restaurant, Jolly Jacks, for a wee celebratory meal.

Tuesday 5 July 2011

From land to sea

Visiting a big city like Glasgow is always something of a culture shock for us. Earlier in the day we were staggering along the road to the bus stop in Carradale with our giant suitcases, greeting our neighbours with a friendly word here and there, explaining to those who didn’t already know that we would be away from a while, then before we know it we are stepping down from a bus meeting the noise and the rush of a big city full on. People are strangers here. Nobody stops for a chat and often will not even step aside to let us pass along the pavement, overburdened though we are. We feel like aliens, strangely uncomfortable with our fellow humans.

We spend the night at the Travelodge as we have business to conduct in the city and Glasgow has the nearest branch of our bank. After checking in at the hotel we rush off to arrive just before closing time and, business completed, then relax and celebrate a little, eating out at Dino’s in Sauchiehall Street. This is a little island of Italian-ness and once inside, seated before the red and white chequered plastic table cloth, we can pretend that we have just stepped off an Italian village street. We can even order our meal in Italian, if we dare. The Spaghetti Napoli is a delicious thing to behold and the owner exudes excessive Italian charm right through the meal – what more could you ask for.

Cities are noisy places at night (everywhere is noisy compared to Carradale)  but despite this we sleep well and by mid-afternoon the following day we are in Birmingham and setting off on the last leg of our long journey.


Puffy white clouds float about aimlessly above us as the day warms up and the fine weather continues; we are travelling south, towards the sun, and at each stop we notice a slight increase in warmth, degree by degree, until finally we arrive at our destination, Millbrook in Cornwall.
Here we have barely set off with our luggage to walk the last mile down the lane to the boatyard when the yard owners, Pip and Debbie, pass by and kindly stop their car to take our bags for us. We are expected and they have made us feel less like strangers here in this foreign land.

Millbrook Lake is actually a tidal inlet off of the River Tamar which itself forms the boundary between Devon and Cornwall. The word ‘lake’ does not do this place any justice at all because for most of the day the water is absent and a muddy desert shimmers in the heat, quietly leaking an ever ripening smell which drifts across the boatyard where we are working to bring Cirrus Cat alive again. Fortunately there is plenty to be done so we ignore our senses for the moment; launch day is a weekend away and the anti-fouling paint has to go on, sails bent on spars and the engine run up. Considering that she has been lying here since October last year, the air inside the boat is quite fresh (a tribute to the ventilation) and everything we need to live comfortably aboard is soon unpacked or re-fitted in its place. We begin stocking up with food, connecting the instruments and other electrical equipment and brushing away ten months of dust where this has accumulated, ready for the land to sea transformation that is about to take place.

The heat is now oppressive and by afternoon it is sapping our energy. Activity begins to slow down a little as, with so little breeze, the temperature inside the boat rises to 29 degrees Celsius in the shelter of the boatyard. The moment will soon arrive when there will be cooling water lapping against the hull making things rather more comfortable on board.

Sunday is the day our son Mike arrives for a visit, with Yeovil’s newest inhabitants, Kate’s brother Peter and his wife Liz, who are now living in our renovated house there.


We spend a hot but enjoyable day with them trying to deal with Liz’s apparent fears about whales rising up from the depths of the sea and tipping over our catamaran with one toss of the head (surely not!) then finally they return home to leave us alone to spend what will be our last night on land for many months.

Launch day finally arrives and a specially adapted trailer is slid between our hulls which jacks Cirrus clear of the ground. A tractor is hitched up and our home from home slowly trundles across the boatyard towards the slipway which leads… to the muddy expanse of Millbrook Lake.


Here we are deposited, gently, and abandoned for the rest of the day, forgotten by the world until the tide brings Cirrus’ natural element, water, to us. And before we know it we are floating away on a new adventure.