Northward again

In total contrast to the River Deben, we are now safely tucked into a yacht marina in Lowestoft, some 35 miles further north. This is a busy port, all bustle and businesslike and

with a marina just inside the entrance run by the Royal Norfolk & Suffolk Yacht Club, an august body rich in tradition where the dark blue blazer is almost certainly mandatory at the bar. How we got in I'll never know but they certainly regret it now as their rooftop webcam has captured us two loonies standing on Cirrus Cat waving madly (Click the picture for a larger one. Cirrus is on the far left.).

Before leaving the Deben we popped over to the Sutton Hoo viking ship burial site. 

This picture shows how they buried King Raedwald back in 625, himself probably from a family of a European immigrants, a curious link with today as many Dutch sailors still come to this area, particularly at this time when their queen's birthday is a public holiday for them. As I write I hear Dutch spoken on the boat next to us and yesterday evening we participated in a mild adventure when another Dutch boat came to anchor where it was too shallow, just as the tide was dropping. For anyone who doesn't know, a yacht with a single keel simply falls over when you take away the water, not a nice thing to happen. Some last minute pulling on ropes sorted him out eventually but at the expense of some national pride, I fear.

It was with some sadness that we left the Deben early this morning, creeping out to sea in the mist when nobody else was awake. Us sailors must always have tides and currents in mind when putting to sea so 5am it was, just in time to catch the shipping forecast then away down river. Turning north (our first left turn) we caught the express-train of a tidal current which sucked us on past Orford Ness, another slight left turn,

and past Aldburgh where the colours of the sea facing houses, visible even in the mist, led me to speculate that they might have become energised by radioactivity from the nearby Sizewell B power station. Foolish thought. This was not a good sailing day, however. The promised wind failed to materialise leaving us no option but to motor most of the distance. The sea heaved gently under us with scarcely a ripple on the surface although beneath the water the silt disturbed from the bottom swirled and churned like milk poured into tea. Rarely does the water drop clear here. It is quite shallow some distance off, no good for ships, but deep enough for our shallow draft to pass close to the shore so we could peer at remote villages perched vulnerably close to the sea and beach fishermen braving the early morning chill. No exciting wildlife here on view; just a few gulls chasing a fishing boat trawling nets across our path, but we are a little further on our way none the less.

Oops, we missed Essex

Sailing passages always start with a plan, much of which depends upon assumptions made about what the weather will do. There are a lot of other variables - tide, fuel, fitness of the crew and so on - but most of these are pretty predictable.

But even the Met Office (working flat out as they do just for our benefit) cannot always get the weather right. So at the point when this picture was taken, our last view back at the Thames with a ship at anchor and the low hills of Sheppey just visible in the haze, our sailing plan included stopping for one night attached to Essex (by anchor) before we moved on north into Suffolk. Then the wind freshened and Cirrus started to move faster... and then faster... until our plans changed. So if it was ever our plan to sail around Britain stopping at each county bordering the sea, which it wasn't, then it isn't now, if you see what I mean.

Most sailing boats, and catamarans are no exception, go best on a 'beam reach', that is when the wind is blowing at right angles to the direction of travel. Somewhere off the Maplin Sands with the low-lying coastline of Essex barely visible on the horizon, we picked up a fresh south-easterly and Cirrus began to blast along so fast that we could consider sailing much further than planned that day. 

Twice, in fact, the plan changed until many hours later our bows pointed north into the River Deben in Suffolk, a favourite of ours from many years ago when we lived in a village nearby. All that was left was to negotiate the Deben bar, a shallow sill in the mouth of the river over which the sea boiled and foamed. Cirrus undertook the passage through this lot, marked by tiny buoys, at around 7.30pm with daylight fading, the incentive being one of the most beautiful anchorages imaginable just up river. Here we lie with not a boat in sight, remote enough from urbanism that the night is truly dark, the sky full of stars and the only sound is of water lapping our hulls.

Well that was yesterday.

Today we set off exploring to find yet another 11th century church overlooking the river, very plain inside, stained glass looking more like you might expect in the front door of your house, but a cool and quiet place. The round tower has an even earlier history as apparently our Saxon ancestors used this as a vantage point to check for Viking invaders sailing up the river. How anyone alive today can say this with so much certainty is a mystery to me but the position of the tower certainly gives a good view down river and out to sea.

The whole river is steeped in history, most of which has been lost by the draining of the surrounding marshland which made the river narrower and less suitable for larger craft. We did find one remnant of an earlier time however, a small model speedboat perched in the crook of a tree just on the high water line, badly damaged and no doubt once treasured, its last voyage long forgotten.

We are conscious of the fact that it is still very early in the year and many boats are still laid up, yachties only dreaming about sailing them. Many of the moorings we pass are empty, waiting for their boats to arrive, and at sea the sight of a sail is something to be remarked on, a rarity even.

At the weekend, however, with the sun shining, the boats do emerge. The Deben is host to many sailing clubs whose members all want to blow the winter's dust off their dinghies and try their hand at a race, or maybe just fly about in the fresh breeze blowing up the river. They come in all colours and shapes, even this one which bears the same name as us, minus the 'Cat', of course until the river is flecked by clouds of sails all bending to the breeze.

Now for some wildlife bits.

We are anchored at a bend in the river known as The Rocks, named after some loose bolder-y bits lying on the bottom below the water. There is a steep sandy bank on the shore with a copse of tall trees which break the wind's strength making it a good spot to anchor providing you are not scared by weird noises. For the trees here provide nesting sites for herons, who seem to prefer tall conifers, and with the river right by giving them a sort of MacDonalds on their doorstep. Herons have a strange vocabulary. All day long the nest-bound chicks emit a repetitive deep clacking sound, continuous and boring (unless you happen to be a heron, of course) and only varying when a parent arrives at the nest. The best way to describe the noise they then make is to imagine someone being violently sick; yes, that noise, very loud and disconcerting.

The final noise coming from these woods is a really scary one, especially since we have only heard this at night. For this you have to imagine a small creature being killed in the most gruesome way imaginable so that their shriek of pain pierces the night. That's the noise.

One final tip on herons: Don't walk beneath their nests. With a creature this size the droppings are dinner-plate sized.

Venturing North

Sunday

We are in the middle of a 'pause for chores', these largely consisting of removal of personal (land-based) effects from a store in London to another in Devon.

Here I am in white-van-man mode concentrating on the road ahead. There is nothing as scary to most car drivers as a white van with scratches down one side approaching at speed so the driving experience for us over the last few days was not a bad one, despite the miles covered. It gave us the opportunity to drop in on a few friends and also to cadge some Scottish charts, part of our round Britain preparations. All we have to do now is sail there to use them, of course.

For that we would like some wind, preferably not blowing directly from the direction we intend to to travel and looking ahead, Thursday looks like being suitable for setting off.

Wednesday

In anticipation of a decent and kindly wind we have moved Cirrus into Sharfleet Creek, one of a series of quiet backwaters fringeing lower reaches of the River Medway. At the time of our arrival, just as the tide was starting to ebb, the water so smooth that the few white clouds were reflected as if in a slightly distorted mirror. The day was warm, our best yet, and as the temperature nudged 25 degrees C inside our cabin, lethargy overcame us.

Only partly was this tiredness due to the heat, however. Yesterday, a similarly hot day, we chose to give our folding bikes an airing by cycling along the coast to Faversham, a straight line distance of some 15 miles. The journey was along part of the 'M1' of cycle paths - National Cycle Route 1 - a single path connecting Dover to Inverness for those who have the stamina. For those not familiar with the concept of an NCR let me say right away that there is absolutely no resemblance to a motorway. I suppose the route might have been as straight as an arrow had we built cycle paths in this country before we needed roads for cars but with the cyclist being considered only as a Johnny-come-lately the routes have to slip between houses, to deviate along narrow shared footpaths, to pick disused railway lines and use quiet meandering lanes where motor traffic is almost non-existent. A beetle trundling across the road in front of my wheels could be confident of making it to the other side here, especially after I'd swerved to avoid him.

The one thing these routes don't do is take you along busy roads, a serious challenge around the more industrial parts of Sittingbourne and shortage of the tiny red signposts here made this bit rather difficult to follow. But we soon got ourselves back on track and a haze of bluebells in a roadside wood signified that here at least Spring was in full flood. There was apple blossom everywhere and I even spotted a brown lizard sunning himself before he saw me and darted away.

Sadly our legs were not entirely up to the challenge and today we are suffering the consequences so this quiet anchorage suits our mood entirely.

In the last hour the wind has filled in and changed; at last a fair wind for us to sail north tomorrow. Our plan is, over the next 2 days, to sail to Suffolk, maybe as far as the River Deben, a favourite haunt of ours from many years ago when our family home was in a village less than half a mile away. We have enough food on board to last us for some days, maybe a week or more if we are prepared to eat the 'boring stuff' we always resort to when the fresh veg runs out. This means we can use quiet sheltered anchorages, far from civilisation, if we can find them, with only the wildlife for company.

The last four nights we have spent quietly at anchor at Harty Ferry, which many years ago would have been a crossing point to the eastern end of Sheppey as well as a place to fill a ship with fresh water from the natural spring on the mainland side of the crossing.

Here is Cirrus with her anchoring equipment - the round shape for daylight and the solar-recharging garden light for the night.

Many years ago, maybe about the time that Henry the Eighth took Anne Boleyn here for her honeymoon, we would have been anchored behind the Isles of Sheppey because there is actually a main island and two others, Elmley and Harty, although silting up of the channels and man's interventions have now blurred the distinctions between them. Sheppey itself is a corruption of Sheepy which tells us what a large part of the island might have been known for. At the western end, however, close to the Port of Sheerness there is now a car park of stupendous dimensions where imported cars are stored in their thousands before being distributed across Britain. Even Googlemaps struggles with the size of this feature.

Fortunately most of the rest of Sheppey is rural and to the east and all along the southern shore there are natural saltings and marshland which have status as wildlife reserves and provide homes for thousands of birds and plenty of other creatures too. During a short walk yesterday I came close to infanticide when I just missed stepping on this little clutch. Mum and Dad had been flying above us for some time making all sorts of strange noises to lure us away but since neither of us speak Lapwing I'm afraid the message wasn't getting through. This whole area is a birdwatcher's bonanza and at this time of year one regularly sees hawks over-flying looking for easy pickings of young fledglings - a nerve-wracking time for their parents. Whilst out on a nearby sandbank members of the permanent seal colony loll about taking a much more relaxed approach to life.

One feature about Sheppey that has always struck me is that it is insular and unwelcoming. Everywhere you look there are scores of 'Private - no entry' or 'No footpath' signs, don't go here or there, always emphasising the negative, never the positive. But fortunately Sheppey has at least one haven of sanity on the 'Isle' of Harty where, just a short walk from the ancient and broken slipway leading into the water from the Harty Ferry Inn, lies St Thomas' church, a place renowned for being the most remote church in Kent. Built in the 11th or 12th century then hacked about or added to many times since, it welcomes visitors through its always open door into the sanctuary of its dark, cool interior. Here a stained glass depiction of St Thomas, for the spiritual, gazes across at a rather beautiful owl, for the secular, and at the rear of the church one can pick up a good novel or a toy racing car as well as an ornamental china pig tattooed with church logo represented here, all sale proceeds trustfully posted through a slot in the wall.

Far and away the best feature at St Thomas', however, is the jam table. This is not just any jam nor is it jam for the faint-hearted or the narrow-minded. Here, if you come on the right day, you'll find such exotics as banana and date, strawberry and apple, marrow and blackcurrant or if you're a real risk taker you may be tempted by the 'Mixed Fruit'. It all stands quietly just inside the door, plain little jars tempting all comers, with an apologetic sign explaining how the price has had to rise to £1.75 to cover the cost of the jars customers never think to bring back. In this place the negativity expressed elsewhere on Sheppey is replaced with trust. For me this place is worth a return visit any day.

This morning we pulled up our mud laden anchor and sailed east to Gillingham on the River Medway where we'll leave Cirrus to carry out some domestic removals - re-locating our stored effects to somewhere less expensive than London. Looking ahead for the next five to seven days we can see a run of northeasterly winds forecast, these coming straight off the cold North Sea and from exactly the direction we want to travel, a perfect justification for pausing here until something better comes along.

Destination retirement

Quickly, before the events of the last few days slips into memory, I must make a record so that they are not forgotten. Never again will we pass this way and just as starting one's first job is an event that sticks in the mind, so equally is the end of that job, the end of all paid work. But for those who have yet to come this way let me warn you that it may not be what you expect, it may feel more like a beginning than an end. You just have to decide what it is that is beginning. But first we have to thank so many who have wished us on our way, for all the wonderful greetings and comments we have been pouring over on cards and messages we received and for the retirement gifts given to send us on our way. Thank you, thank you, thank you, we'll miss you all.

And thank you to those of you who wished us on our way out of Central London, especially to Alison and Nathalie, our neighbours on Loch Invar for the colder months of this last winter and who were our official 'waver-offers' on the day Cirrus Cat left fresh water and emerged from the marina lock out into the salty brown waters of the Thames. The general sentiment from you all seems to be envy but you may have felt differently had you been on board as we motored down river later in light rain, fully clothed in our warmest hats and gloves with darkness closing in and miles yet to go. The passage was not without its excitement, however. Woolwich Reach on the Thames is perhaps best known for its free car ferry crossing the river many times each day rather than its wildlife. But nobody told the two small porpoises we saw frolicking in the water just by the ferry.... yes, porpoises in the Thames! No pictures, I'm afraid (a porpoise doesn't exactly hang around with a smile on its face waiting for the camera flash), so you'll just have to believe they were there, but they certainly put a smile on Kate's face that lasted for miles.

By 9pm we were turning into the Swale, the thread of water that separates the Isle of Sheppey residents from the rest of Britain, the rising tide sucking us in till the water shoaled and the anchor plopped to the sea bed. With the engine off, finally, the quietness surrounded us and took us into its shell so we could sleep at last, almost alone in peace with just the birds for company. So today we awoke for the first day of our new life. The air was completely still and so was the water when it paused between the tide rushing out and returning again, Cirrus floating effortlessly between the two. The sky was cloudy and the light had an unreal silvery sheen to it, obscuring the air/water divide in the distance. We emerged slowly from the cabin, savouring the silence, keeping our own movements quiet in response.

Later we were boarded by noisy pirates in the guise of friends larking about and joining us out on the water. Here are just two of them caught in the act of boarding. We plan to spend the Bank Holiday weekend here just drifting about at anchor or maybe sailing a little further west towards Queenborough in a few days time when we run out of food on board. The weather has been kind all day, just the lightest of winds with the sun warming the boat nicely and giving us a chance to take stock and make the mental adjustment from our life on a stationary boat to our new life of travel.

Final days in London

Only a few weekends left to us now before we leave London, our home for the last 3 years, the last 6 months of which have been afloat on Cirrus. So on what was the warmest day of the year to date we dug our bikes out of the 'shed' (our name for the starboard rear cabin), unfolded them and set off downstream. Our plan was to make a double crossing of the river at two different points, by land and sea.

There is a riverside sign-posted route for cyclists and pedestrians which encircles the Isle of Dogs so our first destination was to the southernmost tip of this peninsular where we would take the ancient and famous foot tunnel under the river to Greenwich. A descent by lift on one side of the river is followed by a walk through a straight and echo-ey tunnel where there is another lift up to ground level again. Or at least there should be if it is working. It is not uncommon for one or other lift to be out of order so the trick here is to choose a direction of travel, north or south, where we can descend the spiral staircase at one end and rise in the working lift at the other, thus avoiding carrying our bikes up 60 or so steps. Since today it was the south lift that was out of commission we made a quick change of plan and turned away east for our next crossing point, the Woolwich ferry.

London east of Canary Wharf cannot be described as pretty and many would use much stronger language for an industrial wasteland criss-crossed by flyovers carrying cars or trains and overflown by roaring jets taking off steeply from the City airport. But there are attractions. Nestling on a meander of the River Lee is a tiny man made paradise of wildflower meadow and freshwater ponds full of life which ignores the Docklands railway passing directly overhead. Pausing here for a while in the sunshine we too find it easy to forget, as the creatures do, that a giant city throbs and roars about us.

After battling with more dual carriageways than was healthy for us we eventually escaped past the acre or so of sugar factory which dominates the north bank of the Thames here. It was sugar, of course, that gave London much of the accumulated wealth it has today and also brought slavery to our shores but a golden syrup tin now adorns one end of this massive industrial plant telling us that at least someone still has a sense of humour.

Onwards then to our sea voyage, made with the tide just starting its flood, and Kate seen here having just taken her Kwells in preparation for the passage. The tannoy announces "All passengers must leave the vessel after docking", clearly intended to prevent all those who might choose to drift backwards and forwards across the river all day from doing so and one can see, on a day like today, how tempted one might be to do just that.

As cyclists we disembark first, making our escape before we can be mown down by the the all-too-eager motorists behind us, then we drift over to an ice-cream van for much needed sustenance.

Gazing west towards the capital now we see many of the landmarks we will soon be leaving behind. Canary Wharf's towers gaze down on the dome of the O2 arena while the ferry in the foreground flashes its funnels at the sugar factory opposite. The Thames Barrier strides across the river here too and it is through these arches we'll be sailing soon. Come Easter this will be our gateway to a new life.

The last holiday, ever

We don't do cars very well any more. When we sit inside one now the stress levels immediately start to rise. Kate is nervous of my driving and I am the same with hers. Add to this the difficulties of navigating unfamiliar roads, whilst trying to read an inadequate map (1994 vintage) and translate this into road signs and landmarks, all the while checking to see where the next lorry is coming from and worrying about what the idiot driver is behind us trying to do - getting close enough so he can reach out and touch the boot of our car, I think - and very quickly the human has been frazzled out of us and the horns have come out. We reach a compromise of sorts by agreeing not to impinge on the other's domain - I try not to lean over and map read and Kate has to ignore my driving - and thus we get ourselves along the road to our destination. But for me I was wanting to be elsewhere, anywhere but on the road.

This was a meticulously planned week starting with a train journey north then a day visiting Ursula, Kate's nun of an aunt, then taking to the road in a tiny hired car so we could drop in on Kate's niece Jeannie, her brother Andrew, then finally our son Tony in Newcastle. We had special deals booked at motels dotted here and there and to break the tragic monotony of this had arranged two nights in a Youth Hostel at Robin Hoods Bay in Yorkshire where we knew we would be able to walk our legs off no matter what the weather. The plan meant many miles driving through the conurbations of Sheffield and then Manchester, picking our way through countless motorway junctions and sets of traffic lights.

Tuesday and it was Ashton under Lyne (shortened to 'AUL' on road lane markings for obvious reasons) where Kate was given a trim by her niece before we dropped in for a cup of tea with her oldest brother who lives nearby. Next day we were driving north again and, arriving too early to meet with Tony, we took to the cold, windswept beach at Tynemouth where we watched long legged curlew sandpipers scuttling across the surfline to our great amusement. They always seem to be playing with the incoming waves, daringly leaving it to the last moment to run away across the sand. I seem to remember doing this as a child, sometimes failing to avoid a rogue wave and ending up with wet shoes. 

Somewhere along the way we paid an emotional visit to the very house where Kate spent much of her childhood, a schoolhouse then, now a privately owned property but still stuck out in remote Yorkshire farmland. Snow earlier in the week had melted on most roads but the tiny lane here was almost untouched and a skating rink for our hire car to get to grips with. Fortunately the steep descent from the main road was not matched by a similar ascent otherwise I'm sure we would still be there now. Externally the only change here is that the trees are bigger, so Kate tells me. But then they would be, wouldn't they. To get to her school she had to travel first to Otley, the nearest substantial town, which boasts an imposing statue of Thomas Chippendale (the cabinet maker, not the exotic dancer) and a café which can produce, without effort, what must have been the longest potato chip in the world. Maybe there is a connection of some sort here.

Wednesday found us navigating tiny lanes around Robin Hoods Bay on the North Yorkshire coast, trying to find the Boggle Hole Youth Hostel where we had two nights booked. Lacking basic common sense we were using insight and a rather suspicious looking wooden signpost which very nearly took us up to our wheel arches in a muddy brown river, jokingly referred to as a ford, until a helpful local man pointed us on our way. The hostel was almost deserted, few being crazy enough to brave the cold and snow of recent days to stay there, but we were made welcome and soon had the lie of the land. Eating out in the evening involved a trek up the steep cliff path, a mile walk along the crumbling cliff edge then a hair-raisingly steep descent down wooden steps to the village pub and later, full of good food and ale, a similar passage in total darkness. By the second evening we had this pretty well sorted, however, so even the driving snow failed to deter us.

The curving slabs of rock at the cliff base (this is still referred to as a beach) are a classic feature of the area, and the Jurassic fossils within these sediments attract many hopefuls in search of new discoveries or simply bigger and better examples of what others have discovered already. But venture too near the cliffs and you'll soon realise how fast the sea is making inroads here. Falls from the tops are happening continuously as more and more soil slips quietly away, Britain disappearing from view to be carried away by the sea. The beach is actually a mixture of bed rock and sand with sea-rounded pebbles in a variety of colours, suggesting great efforts of transportation from far and wide. Lumps of boulder clay, some round shaped by the action of the sea and looking like dinosaur eggs, litter the beach. The clay is topsoil from the cliffs and falls are both regular and frequent so it is wise not to venture too close.

But the bay can also be stunningly beautiful, particularly with the winter sun catching snow on the cliff tops and the wind waterfall whisking to produce a fine mist, like steam on the water.

By one definition, 'taking a holiday' presupposes being at work in the first place. Thus on ceasing to work it must no longer be possible to take a 'holiday' at all. In a little over six weeks time we will have retired and will need new words to describe what we have just done. Paid work as we now understand it will cease for us both so this week away from home will not be forgotten quickly. Soon our home will move along with us and as we pass the Yorkshire coast again our viewpoint will be different, from on sea to a distant shore.

The family reunion

Train tickets all booked, a change of clothes, a few essentials for the journey, enough warm clothing to enable us to survive the wait for the Ticehurst bus and off we set on Friday evening, out into one of the coldest nights of the year. We stepped from the train into the white-encrusted world of the Sussex countryside, wending our way through clouds of exhaust smoke coming from the waiting cars so we could stand by the bus stop and stamp our feet to fend off the cold till our bus arrived. Our breath misted thickly in front of us as we peered at the timetable faintly illuminated by lights from the station - maybe 20 minutes or so till the bus arrived. Survivable, then. Just. 

From Ticehurst village we walked the quarter-mile to our night's bed & breakfast down a quiet hedgerow-lined lane bathed in the most eerie light imaginable. The searchlight brightness of a full moon shone onto the frozen landscape, darkness being turned into a transparent in-between world of strange shapes, blanched of colour and form, all the while the cold eating at our faces, our nostrils pinched with ice, lungs burning with the chill. 

Such a magical experience for us city dwellers, even with the cold we were reluctant to leave this world for the warmth of our accommodation. So in the morning we just had to trek around the frozen fields before visiting our family gathered waiting for us nearby. This weekend has been the family Christmas we missed this year. Lots of food and chat, lots of laughter, some presents, some drinking and some general lounging about.

Here we all are at The Bull, waiting to be fed, the two Trott lads looking scarily alike as we joked and reminisced. That's me on the left with the bull picture behind my head.

Much of the weekend was spent tackling the Times crossword, some of us being better equipped for this sort of mental nonsense than others. By the end of the weekend my brother, Graham, had succumbed to the cold germs he brought with him into the UK from his home in Italy. We are now all hoping we have some natural immunity and remain unaffected.