The small campsite at Milton Haven was a perfect place to camp with the boat on the beach nearby. Unfortunately, I managed to upset the owner who sped towards us on his quad bike, like a four wheeled dour version of Mr McHenry from the Magic Roundabout, to inform us I’d pitched a tent next to the campervan in an area that was for campervans only – as he’d clearly explained when Dave and Hilary had arrived. He now repeated himself three times over, just be certain we had received the message. However, moving the tent a few yards to the left seemed to pacify him and Mr McHenry ensured a quiet evening free from rowdy youngsters and barking dogs . Thereafter, we were careful to obey all the rules and so were left in peace for the rest of our stay.

Monday dawned grey and overcast with little wind. The previous day’s sail from Arbroath had brought me 16 nautical miles up the coast. Actually, I had sailed 21 across the ground as I’d tacked northward. The wind was again forecast to be light and from the ‘wrong’ direction, but I was keen to continue to make progress and try to reach Stonehaven, some 13 nautical miles along the coast. Dave and I thought the day would be a good opportunity to experiment with the relative merits of tacking (just sailing), paddle-sailing (and tacking) and just paddling upwind. Dave set up the GPS to display ‘Velocity Made Good’ (or VMG) to windward which measures speed towards an upwind destination rather than speed across the ground or through the water. This would help me to work out which of the three canoe sailing options was the fastest upwind.

Setting off after breakfast and tacking upwind, I passed a series of tall rugged cliffs with a great many sea caves, some spectacular water sculpted rock arches and several small streams cascading over the cliffs onto the rocks below. I felt a strong desire to land, pause and soak in the scenery for a while. However, the tide was soon due to turn against me so I pressed on in mostly force 2 conditions. Experimenting with the various upwind options gave the approximate results for VMG of; just paddling with a double bladed paddle – 2.2 knots, just sailing – 2.7 knots, and paddle sailing with a single bladed paddle – 3.2 knots. As I fought upwind against the increasing south going tide and the wind becoming fitful, some fairly aggressive paddle sailing was need to clear Downie Point just south of Stonehaven. On a starboard tack I inched northward at 1 to 2 knots over the ground and on a port tack the tide swept me south, back towards Milton Haven. Thankfully, the port tacks were short and just after Downie Point the wind picked up a little and I was able to sail into the small sandy bay just south of Stonehaven harbour. The local sailing club found a space nearby for me to park Stacey for the night and Dave, Hilary and I booked into a B&B conveniently situated very close to the harbour. During the day I’d sailed 17 nautical miles across the ground.

 

Light winds were forecast for Tuesday 31st July but the direction was favourable for a 20 nautical mile passage round Fife Ness and across the Firth of Tay to Arbroath. Katherine and I had spent a great evening in a small hotel in Crail with fantastic views over the Firth of Forth and of the Isle of May, so feeling refreshed I launched into the small harbour and drifted out of the shelter of the hills surrounding Crail. A light north easterly breeze took me along the north shore of the Firth of Forth towards the point of Fife Ness at around 3 knots. It wasn’t possible to raise the coastguard on the marine VHF due to surrounding hills and cliffs, but once in sight of the Coastguard station at Fife Ness I was able to register my vessel’s details and my passage to Arbroath. The officer on duty wished me well and I confirmed I’d call later to report my safe arrival. Dodging numerous creel buoys I sailed in company with a small Drascombe with tan sails for a while.

Rounding Fife Ness in bright sunshine I steered to the east of the post marking the edge of the reef that extended eastwards from the point. Later, with the expanse of the Firth of Tay to my left, the wind increased in strength to F3 gusting 4, backing to the south east whilst the waves also slowly increased in size. By now I was on a reach and making a much better speed toward Arbroath than expected (around 5 to 6 knots as an average). Whilst this was welcome I wasn’t entirely sure what the effect would be at the shallow entrance to Arbroath Harbour. Reeds warned about the dangers of the entrance in moderate swell conditions and I knew I’d be entering the harbour fairly close to low water when breakers would be more likely. I concluded I’d be unlikely to have a problem as there had been insufficient time for any significant wave height to build, but a slight nagging doubt remained. I’ve found this sort of uncertainty typical of sailing unfamiliar waters in a small vessel. For example, in the Solent I’d have no difficulty with working out what the implications of a wind against tide situation in the Needles Channel would be for a sailing canoe; because pilotage guides are written for yachts, I’d also have little problem with entering a harbour for the first time in a yacht in less than ideal weather. In the event there were no breakers at the harbour entrance and after reaching Arbroath I soon had Stacey on a boatyard slipway next to a very large fishing boat, which was out of the water for deck repairs and repainting.

The large fishing harbour, with a marina in the inner harbour, offered nothing in the way of camping possibilities, campervan or not, so Katherine and I booked into a B&B where I was able to catch up a little on blogging and recharge the VHF, mobile phones, camera batteries and so on. The next day dawned grey with grey skies and fog (visibility of less than a mile) whilst waves from the spell of fresh south easterly winds were intermittently breaking over the harbour wall, so we spent the day looking round the harbour and visiting the Signal Tower Museum* and Arbroath Abbey.**

* Built in 1813, by Robert Stevenson (the grandfather of Robert Louis Stevenson), the Signal Tower complex was the shore station of the Bell Rock Lighthouse until 1955 and provided a home to its keepers and their families. The museum, housed in the signal tower building, has a fascinating exhibition concerning the building and history of the Bell Rock lighthouse, the first sea washed lighthouse in the world, also built by Robert Stevenson. The Bell Rock lighthouse is situated 11 miles from Arbroath on the notorious Inchcape reef which wrecked many ships before the lighthouse was finished in 1812.
** Arbroath Abbey is the site of the 1320 Declaration of Arbroath which asserted Scottish independence. The ruins of the once huge abbey are impressive. There is an interesting exhibition concerning the declaration, Scottish history and the long history of conflict with England.

 

Having just reached Scotland, and looking back with a little distance of time and space between, it seems my time in Amble was a low point in my journey around the coast. I knew that long sails, challenging conditions, getting ashore and doing this solo* would be physically and mentally arduous but I didn’t reckon on two things. The first being the worst British summer anyone can remember and the second being the hefty demand of the ‘off the water’ workload. By this I mean; getting ashore, setting up camp, or finding somewhere to stay, making sure the boat is safe, planning the next day’s sail, domestic tasks, answering emails and blogging.

In addition to delays waiting for wind or waves to abate, the long run of exceptionally bad weather has often meant sailing solo in challenging conditions without any nearby safe havens. Physically, this has been hard work but mentally it’s been a whole lot tougher with some very difficult decisions concerning wind, weather and what’s an acceptable level of risk. Plus, there were some periods of very demanding sailing in large waves and or strong winds, or both, with a high level of vigilance needed to stay safe. Simply put, days of sailing in strong winds and into five foot waves, alone, was taking its toll. To add to my woes, my knee injury was increasingly painful and beginning to make walking difficult.

After a night’s rest on the floor of the Coquet Yacht Club floor, light winds would have allowed a Wednesday departure but a day’s to rest and allow injuries to recover seemed the better option. I occupied the time with updating the account of my voyage, reading and visiting the local supermarket for food supplies. On Thursday morning I prepared to leave but, looking seaward from Coquet Yacht Club, could see breakers at the harbour entrance so walked the half mile to the harbour pier to take a closer look. Large rollers from the North East were causing large breaking waves on the entrance. A departure was clearly not possible that day and I later heard that most of the local lobster boats had returned to harbour after finding the sea conditions too rough for comfort or safety. Talking to Greg confirmed that websites such as XC Weather and Magic Seaweed (a surfers’ website) were reporting a wave height of 4 to 5 feet, which was predicted to take a couple of days to die down. No doubt, the cause was some stronger winds far out sea, perhaps as far away as Norway. I’m learning that Northerly and Easterly North Sea winds often lead to such sea states which can persist for some time. In any normal summer this is unusual, but not this year. Landing on beaches was clearly impossible with large breakers and talking to one of the Coquet Yacht Club members who happened by, confirmed that all the harbours between Amble and Lindisfarne, some 22 nautical miles to the North, were open to the North or East.

In the afternoon, deciding to make best use of time ashore waiting for the sea to calm down, I took a bus to Alnwick to collect a hire car which would enable me to drive up the coast to check out the sea conditions at harbour entrances, but also to revisit some of the places I new as a child. Craster’s tiny harbour looked calm enough but outside large white breakers surrounded, and occasionally invaded, the narrow rocky channel leading to the entrance. An angler on the end of the harbour pier assured me this was common in winter but was very rare in summer. A short walk into the small village yielded wonderful smells of the famous Craster kippers being smoked in a large two storey shed but sadly, nowhere to buy a hot kipper, toast and mug of tea. So I left to explore Beadnell beach and the river mouth at Alnmouth, both to the South. Neither seemed to present much in the way of safe havens in the prevailing sea conditions but Alnmouth was an attractive enough spot with a village next to the River Aln as it wound its way over the sandy beach. I watched anglers fishing for flatfish for a while before continuing back to Amble. A night in a B&B and comfortable bed helped ease some of the knee and back pain.

Next morning I continued my exploration of the coast with a visit to Seahouses which had become much busier and commercial since childhood visits with my grandmother. However, it was still recognisable and the harbour was much the same but the fishing boats had been largely replaced, or converted to day trip boats taking tourists and bird watchers to the Farne Islands. The roundabout where my grandmother used to take short cut up to the high street, against the flow of traffic, rather than go the longer right way round, was still there. So I took a photo for memory’s sake.

By contrast Bamburgh was hardly any different. This small village is dominated by the imposing castle, once the site of the home of the kings of Northumbria. A village green with tall trees is surrounded on both sides by rows of stone built houses leading down towards the castle standing on a high rocky outcrop near the sea. The stone fronted terraced stone house where my grandmother lived in later years looked much the same. At the western end of the village is the ancient church of St Aiden, first founded in 637 AD. Sitting for a while beautiful, calm and cool interior I looked at the tall illuminated window at the end of the nave while reflecting on times past and the present, on my boyhood and on revisiting the Northumbrian coast, on relatives no longer alive and on those close to me now. With a renewed determination to continue the journey formed in the peace of the church, I left to visit a nearby beach where I ate bread, cheese and tomatoes in the sun and took photos of rockpools where, earlier in life, I’d played with toy boats. After returning the hire car to Alnwick I took a taxi back to Amble where I dined on fish and chips at the harbour cafe. Later I checked the tides and weather forecast for the next day’s sail to Lindisfarne, via the Farne Islands.

* ‘Solo’ means solo at sea and not in company with any other boat, apart from when Ian Hylton or Keith Morris have sailed with me for a day or two. Greg has provided excellent shore based support from a distance and I doubt I’d be in Scotland now without being able to rely on Greg for up to the minute weather forecasts, assistance with researching destinations and for discussions of potential passage plans.

I usually sleep well on boats, so on Monday morning I awoke on Ed’s yacht Samphire feeling refreshed. Katherine and Ed had sent details of local physiotherapists. A few phone calls later and I’d arranged an appointment with Swiss Physio in Tyneside for 12.15. Lately, increasing knee pain (and some hip pain) has caused me some concern as I need to stay fit to continue the tour. I’d decided to get an understanding of the cause and of what I needed to do to manage the problem.

Angela at Swiss Physio provided a diagnosis with clear advice on what self treatment was required – mainly a regime of specific exercises but with some other ideas.

I would have liked to stay a little longer and see a bit of Newcastle, but the prospect of a force 3 to 4 westerly wind and ideal conditions for sailing north meant I was away next morning before noon. Before departure, Stewart and Darren had made me welcome aboard their orange-hulled 19 foot yacht, where I shared coffee and croissants. They were planning a quick day sail before returning to work in the evening. We met again in the lock between the marina and the Tyne where I moored alongside their boat while the water level in the lock dropped to that of the river. The westerly wind took me quickly down the Tyne and out past the twin piers of the river entrance. I turned northward and waved goodbye to Darren and Stewart.

The sailing was pleasant enough, but uneventful. I close-reached past the northeast coast, passing a mix of small harbours, towns and industrial areas. Keeping fairly close inshore kept me up wind as ‘insurance’ against the wind veering to the North but also kept me in flat water, where I was able to make better speed. Soon after passing Newbiggin-by-the-Sea, with its distinctive, 14th century parish church on the point. Druridge Bay came into view. I’d wanted to stop here, mainly for the pleasure of being able to get ashore on a wide sandy beach backed by high dunes. Breakers, caused by a swell from the North East, were showing white along the shore. The north end of the bay was more sheltered though, and I put ashore close to a small coble tending a salmon net running out to sea.

By the time I’d briefly ‘stretched my legs’ (a strange expression in my view: ‘straightened my legs’ after being in a cramped position for several hours would be more accurate), with a short walk on the dunes, Stacey was almost high and dry. Several heaves were needed to drag her back to the water. Carefully avoiding the salmon nets, I pushed off. The fishermen gave me a wave as I passed. The weak breeze soon died, and I paddled towards Hauxley Point. Looking down through the unfamiliar clear green water, I could see rocks, seaweed and limpets as I glided slowly above.

Ahead, an uneven rocky shelf just off the point was starting to show above the water. I had intended to sail out to the east, passing seaward of the reefs, but now instead, with all the navigational insouciance of a kayaker or canoeist in calm conditions, I simply picked a path through the middle. The westerly breeze revived and I carried on under sail, spilling wind and slowly moving forward whilst standing up for a clearer view of any rocks near the surface.

Coquet Island, with a small beach and white lighthouse atop a grassy mound, was on my right as I neared the entrance to Amble harbour. Once inside the entrance (formed by twin piers), some hefty paddle-sailing against wind and tide was needed to reach Coquet Yacht Club (about a quarter of a mile upriver). Phil Derry (Vice Commodore of the yacht club) arrived especially to meet me and to give me access to the clubhouse facilities.

Feeling tired after about six hours’ sailing, it took me over an hour to unload the boat, carry my gear to the clubhouse and then drag Stacey up the steep slipway. But I was very grateful to Coquet Yacht Club for providing me with somewhere to stay. With the wind whistling through rigging and clattering halyards tonight, whilst rain batters against the windows, I was glad to be sleeping on the club room floor rather than in a tent.

Newspapers this morning talked of a normal summer resuming, gradually. Let’s hope so. This strange summer has seems more like winter at times and my slow progress northward in the face of frequent northerly and easterly winds had begun to become dispiriting at times. Determined to lift my mood and experience a little of Hartlepool on the Saturday night before I left, I set out for the nearby Small Crafts Club. I imagined I might find some company with small craft sailors and enthusiasts. The club seems quiet as I walked down a dockside back street and I wondered whether the members had all gone home. So, as I walked through the soundproofed, intercom controlled door, I was not prepared for a crowded, riotous and very friendly working men and women’s club with a full-on karaoke night in full swing.

I fell in with a small group of lads out on a stag night. The brother of the groom, David, said he was a prize fighter and looked the part. But he was not looking forward to a fight tomorrow with his best mate and thought they might forego the contest. I sympathised and thought he might be better off nursing a hangover, but didn’t say so. He was also celebrating the birth of twin daughters earlier in the day.

At the end of the room with twin lines of long tables leading to the stage, singers took their turn. Some were very good, others less so. Judging I’d be in the latter category, I avoided the microphone.

David and the stag night group wanted to know what brought me to Hartlepool, so I explained as best I could. David’s brother Mark said he admired my ambition and David wanted to know if the sailing canoe could take passengers. Thinking he was asking about sailing 2-up on a day trip, I replied “yes.” However, David became irrevocably fixed on the notion of sailing up to Scotland with me and no amount of shouted discussion would dissuade him from putting me up for the night and setting sail sail with me the day. Taking advantage of David’s visit to the bar, I made my excuses and left.

Feeling a little below par the next morning, I struggled out of the tent warmed by the early morning sun. Coffee, a quick blog, with sunlight streaming through the windows of the club bar, and packing up followed. I was away before 11 am and waved goodbye to Micky and Mike who’d helped me launch. I wished I’d been able to stay a little longer in Hartlepool which has a lot more to offer than I expected and has clearly benefited from much Dockside regeneration, but also has a strong maritime tradition. I regretted not visiting the Hartlepool Maritime Museum. Thanks to all at Hartlepool and Teeside Yacht Club who made me so welcome and looked after me; I’d like to return. The club photographer took some excellent photos of me and the boat. I have a disk with many photos, but here is one kindly contributed by e-mail:

Running out past the North pier I turned left along the East facing coast. The wind was more from the north than forecast and instead of an easy reach, I found myself sailing up wind and into little short, steep waves that threw curtains of spray across the boat. Gusts, flurrying out from the small cliffs on the left of my track, ruffled the water and heeled Stacey over before I could move my weight out to counteract. A Dinghy Cruising Assocation contact, Ed Wingfield, had kindly offered to meet up en route and sail in company. He was sailing a a 10 metre Beneteau yacht and was returning to the Tyne from Sunderland. After some four hours of my slow progress against the wind and waves we met just north of Seaham and continued on towards Sunderland and then the Tyne.

Occasionally the wind would back to the west a little, when I’d be able to unfurl a bit more mainsail and speed would increase to between 5 and 6 knots. Seven hours after departure from Hartlepool, we neared the twin piers of the River Tyne entrance. With two cruise ships due for departure and wind and tide against me, Ed thought it would be best if he towed me to our destination, the Royal Quays Marina two miles away. I agreed, and seeing the strength of the ebb, added to by the peaty brown fresh water spate after recent heavy rain, I could see I would have had to wait several hours for the tide to turn before sailing upstream.

Southampton to Newcastle, or at least to the Tyne. One home town, for the last 40 years plus, to another home town, of my birth and childhood. A circle completed and a sense of returning home.

Transitting the lock at the Marina entrance was a new experience, but useful with over 20 locks to come in the Caledonia canal. Stacey was moored to a small pontoon and I went aboard Ed’s yacht, Samphire, for a welcome cup of tea before a beer and cheese toastie aboard the Earl of Zetland floating bar and retiring to Samphire’s forward cabin for the night.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows. Keith Morris and I were looking out over Scarborough harbour. A full English breakfast needed eating downstairs in the Ivy House Café…

This was followed by a short walk over the road to retrieve the sailing canoes from the fairground. Sadly, it’s no longer possible to transport sailing canoes by train in the guards van* but what other sort of sailing boat can be sailed in the open sea and then stored in a fairground for the night before setting off again the next day? We enjoyed our short stay at Ivy House and much appreciated Alison’s kind hospitality and unusual home for the boats overnight.

Watched by an audience leaning over the railings above the slipway, we re-assembled our boats and launched into the harbour. Before departure, Capt. Doug Shannon, the Assistant Harbourmaster had come over to say the harbour would waive any fees for landing / launching – for which we were very grateful and would like to say thanks.

Paddling through the crowded harbour brought us back out into the bay, and thence past the headland into large but long slow rollers coming from the North. Unlike the waves of the day before, this swell posed no obstacle to our journey. We paddle-sailed for an hour. Then, with the breeze from the South-West gradually filling in, we ate our rolls whilst slowly sailing. Gradually we picked up speed as we alternately rose and fell on the small moving hills of the rollers, whilst ploughing watery furrows northward and parallel to the sunlit cliffs.

From time to time Keith and his boat would completely disappear behind a big wave, with only the top half of his sail visible. I snapped away with the camera, trying to capture this scene. Keith posted messages on Facebook and checked our position from time to time on the Canoe-Sailor blog. A narrowly averted collision reminded us to pay more attention to sailing and less to electronic media!

Was The Canoe Boys ever like like this? Their hand written accounts posted, from various ports in the Hebrides during the late summer of 1934, to the Daily Record might now be called a blog.

As our speed increased to an unexpected 4 to 5 knots and we neared Whitby, it seemed a waste to not make more use of this fair wind and sunlit day. We passed the ruins of Whitby Abbey, silhouetted against the sky on the headland just south of the town, and resolved to press on to Runswick Bay. Five miles further on, our course took us mid way between the Runswick Bay twin headlands where the long rollers reared up in shallow water and crashed, white, onto the the rocky shores. The north western part of the bay provided a safe corner to land free of surf.

Dave and Hilary were there to greet us, and we hauled our bags (well, mostly my bags as Keith was travelling considerably lighter than me) to the Cockpit House B&B perched on the side of the hill above the tiny harbour and rescue boat station.

Keith and I had hoped to set out for Whitby on Tuesday, but waves were still crashing over the line of rocks (called the Brigg) at the north end of the bay.

The surfers website, Magic Seaweed was still predicting five foot high waves. Sheltered from the continuing rain in Keith’s camper van, I brought this blog up to date and Keith edited the Open Canoe Sailing Group magazine, Gossip. An evening trip to a restaurant in Filey provided a pleasant Italian meal and an internet connection for downloading emails and uploading words and photos.

Wednesday looked a bit better, and we thought there may be a chance of sailing the 21 nm to Whitby. Enquiries directed to Ian at Whitby Marina revealed that the surf and waves off the entrance were dying down. So after carrying all our stuff down the steep hill to to Filey Sailing Club we set off just before noon. Waves over the Brigg were still sending spray into the air, but not so high as the day before.

We were both feeling a little apprehensive about the conditions as we sailed out round the cardinal mark and directly into the path of a large swell from the north. Smaller steep waves coming more from the east. Unexpectedly, the wind direction was slightly offshore meaning, the sea state might deteriorate during the day. Sails reefed, we tacked, alternately out to sea and back toward the coast. The confused sea (with some breaking waves) made for difficult sailing, with our boats sometimes almost stopping when the hit a particularly large wave. Magic Seaweed later confirmed a wave height of four to five feet.

As we sailed on in the grey day, past high cliffs topped by green fields, the tide started to turn in our favour to the north and the waves began to get larger. Ruffles of wind across the water preceded increasing gusts. Nestled behind a headland, Scarborough appeared in the distance. A quick shouted conversation with Keith confirmed we were thinking the same thing – time for our ‘plan B’. This was to head for the security of Scarborough rather than to continue upwind to Whitby, which might take another 6 hours or more.

Sunshine broke through the clouds as we reached the shelter of the headland. Paddling between the high stone piers of the harbour entrance revealed yachts, fishing boats and the Scarborough seafront where we pulled the boats out of the water and onto a wide slipway. We’d no idea where to stay or where to store the boats securely for the night but were recommended to enquire at the Ivy House Cafe and B&B.

I explained our situation to the owner, Alison, who thought we were nuts but also deserved a medal. She very kindly offered us a very attractive room, with views over the harbour, at less than half price and suggested storing the sailing canoes in her fairground, over the road. We were able to tuck the boats up securely with the dodgems for the night…

We felt very fortunate to have been treated so kindly and headed off along the sea front for a meal of mussels and chips… followed by a couple of beers at Scarborough Yacht Club (on the end of the pier).

I like the convention, or maybe superstition, of titling a yacht log entry about a destination with ‘Towards’. It conveys a sense of aspiration rather than certainty and, for the superstitious, avoids tempting fate. This must have been all the more real in the days of sailing ships without engines and with very limited ability to sail to windward. I’m reminded daily of the dangers and uncertainties of previous maritime trade and travel by the countless wrecks marked on marine charts and littering the seabed around the shores of Britain.

Yesterday, I set out from Filey Sailing Club towards Whitby knowing the following stretches of northeast facing coast (between Scarborough and the Tees) can be uncompromising and dangerous when the wind is from the north or the east, offering few harbours and safe havens. Swells from strong winds can take days to die down. Little wonder it’s a paradise for surfers in such conditions.

The night before I’d said goodbye to Katherine and knowing I wouldn’t see her for another two weeks, I was feeling sad and a bit dejected. I also felt a sense of foreboding about the next day’s sail to Whitby, but couldn’t work out why. The forecast was for light winds from the North, and a slight to moderate sea state. During the night, gusts of wind rattled the tent a few times. I thought I could hear the distant roar of surf. But I dismissed these fitful, night-time impressions and put them down to my mood.

The next morning’s forecast was in agreement with the previous day’s. Making ready to sail involved walking all my kit in three relays (down a very steep hill to the beach) and I found it hard to be motivated under a grey sky and the continuing drizzle.

At 11am, I set off (later than planned). I sailed close to the Brigg, a natural breakwater at the north end of the bay, to take a few photos of white plumes of spray shooting into the air as breakers from the north hit the rocks. I was surprised at the amount of surf, but pressed on eastward to the cardinal mark beyond the end of the Brigg, where I turned north towards Whitby.

The tide had started to run northward and I assumed the five foot waves coming towards me were a localised effect caused by turbulence as the tide rushed over the underwater extension of the Brigg. However things were no better half a mile on. I looked up at bottle-green wave tops coming towards me (some with white breaking crests) whilst the headland started to disappear in a grey mist. The thought of continuing like this for another few hours to Whitby was starting to feel very unappealing and unsafe. I called Greg for a forecast update, but it still seemed to be at odds with what I was experiencing. I was also concerned about what sea state I’d encounter at the shallow north-facing harbour entrance at Whitby.

Water swirled around lobster pot buoys as the tide rushed towards Whitby, carrying me with it. So, a quick decision was called for on whether to carry on or to return, while I still could. I chose the latter, and sailed back slowly down the waves and back towards the cardinal mark, almost lost in the mist.

This had been my first retreat since I’d left Southampton but I was very relieved to be back ashore at Filey Sailing Club and eating bread and cheese whilst sitting on the end of the slipway.

Weather forecasts are sometimes wrong and, one day on, I’m still waiting to sail towards Whitby. Keith Morris arrived last night to sail with me for a few days, so we drove north to Whitby to look at the sea conditions at the harbour entrance. Large rollers came in between the twin breakwaters and on either side, large breaking waves rushed in towards the shore.

Little had changed this morning, so today has been a day for catching up on emails, laundry and blogging. Breakers are still crashing over the Brigg. Tomorrow, if the sea has calmed down, we might sail towards Whitby.

After the rigours of the previous three days I couldn’t resist a lazy morning relaxing in the sun with coffee, catching up on emails and blogging. I’d slept comfortably upstairs in the clubhouse on a large soft sofa. The large windows looked out over the bay and in the distance I could see Flamborough Head, my next headland hurdle before Filey, which I hoped to reach by the evening. The wind forecast was favourable and I planned to depart at 1 pm to catch the last of the north-going tide around the headland. This would avoid the possibility of a tidal race and breaking waves off the headland.

Ian and Rachel arrived at lunchtime to prepare for the sailing club barbeque that evening and I talked to another club member, Steve Smith, for a while. It turned out we’d probably met before when racing on J24 yachts and knew a few people in common. Steve had considered a sailing-dinghy circumnavigation of Britain, so was interested in the details of the sailing canoe and its ability to cope with the conditions of the past few weeks.

Ian towed Stacey across the wide expanse of sand to the sea, and Steve helped pull her into the water. I pushed off around 1.45 pm and in the very light wind immediately realised I’d left too late to catch the tide round the headland.

I started paddling and hoped for more wind. Heading along the beach to avoid the tide brought me close to the harbour entrance, where I tried sailing for a while and dropped a paddle overboard to shouts of ‘you’ve lost your oar, mister’ from the pier above me. However, I received a round of applause on managing to return under sail to grab the paddle. More wind eventually arrived and I tacked towards Flamborough Head. At the small bay on the south side of the headland (South Landing) I paused for a while, moored to an orange jerry can serving as a buoy, and called my brother in law, Jim, who was travelling from London with my nephew, David, to meet up with me for the evening. A woman in a black wetsuit watched me curiously for a while, after her swim.

A slight mist rolled in from the sea so I attached the navigation light to the top of the mast before setting off again, tacking into the light breeze. The sea mist steadily thickened and I was soon only just able to see the cliffs 30 metres to my left. Any further away and I was totally surrounded by thick fog with the eerie crash of unseen breakers against the cliffs close by. I briefly considered continuing, using the cliffs and sound of the waves crashing against them as a kind of hand rail, but this didn’t seem safe. Besides, I was just too darn scared to go much further! I retraced my route back to South Landing and managed to press gang an unsuspecting family out for a walk into helping to pull the boat up the very steep slipway.

I considered my options; camp at South Landing (OK, but not a great way to spend time with Jim and David), portage over Flamborough Head and carry on again on the other side (I’d be unlikely to arrive in Filey before midnight), or find somewhere to store Stacey and travel to Filey to the B&B booked by Jim.

Greg called, as he tends to do at difficult moments. “Do you remember the woman watching you earlier at South Landing? Well I’ve just been speaking to her. She has a B&B in the village of Flamborough, can store your boat overnight and her name is Lesley”.

How Greg does that I don’t know, but within an hour Jim and David had arrived, David had helped me pull Stacey to the Flamborough Manor, where we parked her in a walled garden. I arranged to return to the Manor to stay the following night with Katherine, who was arriving for the weekend, and Jim, David and I were on our way to Filey where beer and a curry were amongst our first priorities.

For some reason I didn’t sleep well. I was aware of the pattering of rain on the tent from time to time as I awoke from time to time and  tried to get comfortable in my sleeping bag on a Thermarest inflatable matt. When I crept out of the tent next to the River Eau, the water level was still low and the yachts and motor boats along the bank were resting on the mud. A passage to Bridlington (some 44 NM, and across the Humber Estuary) would mean an early start to catch the best of the tide running northward. To breakfast, take down the tent, pack everything into waterproof dry bags, check the forecast, look at charts and sailing directions for the day and load up the boat usually takes me a minimum of two and a half hours. So my 5 am alarm was timed to enable me to be on the water at 7.30 and out of the haven sailing north by 8 or shortly after. Thankfully, the rain didn’t resume until I was under way, close reaching down the channel towards the North Sea. The beach was under water as I followed the channel marked by posts and buoys. Whole families of seals came to have a look as I sailed by. I hoped this was a good omen. Sailing a small boat alone in the North Sea is beginning make me superstitious.

Gradually, I parted company from the low lying and misty coastline in the grey morning light and headed toward the big ship channel leading to the Humber Estuary. As I neared the channel a large ship passed from right to left ahead of me and I could see the matchstick-like silhouette of the lighthouse at Spurn Head ahead in the distance on the port bow. As the north-going tide picked up, I sailed through larger than expected overfalls with some breaking waves on the North side of the channel – but I found that as long as I pointed the boat straight any breaking waves I was able to sail through without difficulty.

For a time thereafter I sailed on uneventfully in the poor visibility with the Yorkshire coast and towns of Withernsea and Aldbrough just visible. A firing range just South of Hornsea meant I needed to stay east of the Greenwich meridian – so for an hour or so, assisted by the GPS, I amused myself by sailing due North in the Eastern Hemisphere, never coming any closer to the Western Hemisphere by anything less than 50 metres. Eventually I was able to edge slightly to the West and towards Bridlington in a fresh wind with moderately rough conditions. However, as I neared the coast the wind started to die and for the last 6 miles or so I paddle-sailed in the sunshine towards the clubhouse of the dinghy section of the Royal Yorkshire Yacht Club. Greg had made contact with Chris
Maw of the RYYC and as a result, Rachel and Ian Porter had very kindly and patiently been waiting for me as I made painfully slow progress against the now south-going tide. Paul Lister from the Open Canoe Sailing Group had also come to meet me and helped me pull Stacey from the water before Ian arrived with a tractor to help pull Stacey up the beach and through the dunes towards the clubhouse where I would later be able to sleep on a very soft and comfortable sofa. A beer and steak and kidney pie and chips supper with Paul followed unloading Stacey and leaving her secure in the boat compound. It had been an exhausting day and I’d been on the water for eleven hours, so was very grateful for the continuing generosity of friends and strangers. Rachel said there’d be a club barbeque and party the following evening so, as I fell asleep, I was very tempted not to move again tomorrow and take a day off in the predicted sunshine.