Monthly Archives: July 2012

Steve and Northern Soul

Lindisfarne to Berwick in a Strong Wind…

Steve and Northern Soul

Steve and Northern Soul

I slept well on the yacht Northern Soul. In the morning, enjoying the feeling of being dry and warm, I lay in the forward cabin thinking about the day ahead whilst halyards clanked against the mast. I was grateful for Steve’s kind offer of shelter on his yacht Northern Soul, without which I would have had a much less comfortable night. Katherine was due to join me at Berwick which was about 8 nautical miles away by sea. I was looking forward to a short sail in moderate westerly winds and to seeing Katherine later that morning.

Steve made tea and toast and we shared the last of his jam on the toast whilst listening to the inshore waters forecast over the marine VHF radio. The forecast for the day had changed and the prediction was now Force 4 to 5 winds occasionally gusting 6 with a warning of force 8 later (i.e. in 12 or more hours’ time). Greg confirmed XC weather was predicting much the same so I was keen to set sail before the wind increased any further.

Casting off, Steve and I took photos of each other and our boats before I tacked out of the small bay under a reefed mainsail. Reversing the path in from the sea was simple enough but this time the ebb tide sped me on my way and I was soon sailing north with Lindisfarne close on the port side. Gusts of wind swept me along with the waves to Emmanuel Head where I turned to port towards Berwick, just discernible as a slight dip in the distant line of cliffs stretching away to the North.

The offshore wind protected me from large waves. Nevertheless, sailing into small but short steep waves, spray flew across the foredeck and fairly frequent bailing was required. I steered a course upwind of Berwick. This was partly as an insurance against the wind veering, but also to bring me closer to the shore where, with less fetch, the waves would be smaller. As the wind gradually increased over the course of the next two hours I progressively reefed (by rolling the sail around the mast) until there were 5 reefs in. I experimented with 6 reefs but found with this tiny amount of sail it was not possible to sail upwind. So I carried on with 5 reefs, spilling wind in fierce gusts.

Fortunately, I was now close to the shore and landed on the sandy beach for a respite and to consider whether I’d be able to sail to Berwick harbour, 2 miles to the North. Greg made enquiries with Berwick Sailing Club where the commodore, Alistair, confirmed conditions at the harbour entrance weren’t difficult although there was a strong fresh water spate coming down the river which might mean paddling against wind and the water flow, once inside the harbour entrance.
 

Berwick at Last!

Berwick at Last!

Checking the forecasts again with Greg, it seemed there was no immediate prospect of a sudden further increase in wind strength so I took advantage of a slight lull in the wind to launch. Sailing close inshore on a reach, gusts, showing as dark ruffles on the water, swept toward me. Still with 5 reefs, boat speed in the gusts surged to over 6 knots, so it didn’t take long to reach the safety of Berwick harbour. Due to the strong winds the sailing club had given up sailing for the day but they kindly sent the club safety boat to motor alongside as I tacked upstream against the flow of clear brown peaty fresh water.

I was ashore soon after 1.00 pm. Sailing club members and visitors from the Coquet Canoe Club helped pull Stacey up the steep sandy river bank. Alistair arrived to say hello and assured me Katherine and I would be very welcome to camp at the club and use their showers. As I looked across the river to the 16th century town walls and the town beyond I was glad to be safely ashore with a warm welcome from Berwick Sailing Club.

Stacey and the Ribs

Amble to Lindisfarne…

Saturday dawned sunny with a promise of a real summer day. I took a breakfast of cereal and toast alone at the B&B, before anyone else was about, and departed for Coquet Yacht Club, carrying two drybags over my shoulder. After loading up and rigging the boat in the sun I pushed off. A light wind barely disturbed the surface of the water, but the ebb tide carried me steadily down the River Coquet past moored yachts, small motor cruisers and the marina. Passing the high harbour wall and the fishing boats tied alongside, I looked toward the harbour entrance. Unlike previous days, the breakers, formed as the ebb tide swept out into the calm North Sea, were small and posed no threat. Sailing gently northward, about half a mile offshore with a gentle breeze from the south west, I watched the panorama of wide sandy beaches, sand dunes, green fields and the grey blue outline of the Cheviots slowly drift by. Wide bays alternated with rocky stretches of coast and headlands. As I passed Craster’s small harbour, the dark outline of the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle came closer. The hillside under the castle was covered with many small dome shaped white tents pitched there as part of an art installation project to celebrate the Olympics. I’d looked at some details two days before when I was in Craster. The event was described as a ‘Peace Camp’ and live event, but camping was not permitted and all the performances were recorded. I expect celebrations and camps were more lively affairs in the castle’s 14th century heyday.

Around midday, I could see the Farne Islands clearly. The tide, which had been carrying north, began to slacken. The wind became slight. Keen to reach Inner Farne before the tide turned, I paddle sailed. Gradually, the outline of Inner Farne, with its white lighthouse, increased in size. Puffins floated on the water. Their small wings seem inadequate for flying, but as I approached they launched themselves away from me across the waves, and after much frantic pattering across the water and whirring of wings, they took flight with their large orange Puffin feet trailing behind. Sooner than I’d expected, the tide started to run south. I was just able to reach the shelter of a small area of water known as ‘The Kettle’ (between Inner Farne and two nearby smaller islands) before I was swept back southward.*

The Farne Islands are a nature reserve owned by the National Trust. Landing, particularly during the breeding season for seabirds, is restricted, with all of the Farne Islands except Inner Farne currently out of bounds. Also, it wasn’t possible for me to pull Stacey ashore on the only small sandy beach as Arctic terns were nesting on the sand. Fortunately, two resident wardens had seen my arrival and kindly arranged for me to tie up alongside their RIB (stands for ‘rigid inflatable boat’) next to the small harbour wall. Small converted fishing boats from Seahouses arrived every half hour or so with visiting tourists and bird watchers to spend an hour or two walking around the designated pathways for views of the resident Arctic Terns, Common Terns, Shags, Puffins, Guillemots, Kittiwakes and other seabirds. The Arctic Terns seemed particularly unafraid of the visitors, making it possible to get very close before they flew off with scolding cries. I was glad of my Tilley Hat as Terns would occasionally shoo humans away from their nests by dive-bombing and pecking their heads. Puffins scurried about in the undergrowth, disappearing into and reappearing from their burrows. All around, the raucous cries of hundreds of seabirds filled the air.

The next tide running North was due about five hours after my arrival. This gave me plenty of time to relax on the small green next to the lighthouse, and to look out over the small sunlit archipelago stretching out to sea, with the large red and white lighthouse on Longstone in the distance. I talked to some of the wardens for a while. Some of the wardens live on the Farne Islands from March through to November, with one day off a week, and much of their time is spent doing wildlife surveys and looking after visitors. On a sunny July day, Inner Farne seemed an idyllic place but I could imagine how wild and isolated the island was during cold, wet and stormy weather, when the sea is sometimes too rough to launch a boat. I was reluctant to leave and asked the head warden whether it might be possible to stay overnight. After a phone call to his boss the answer was ‘yes’ but on thinking through the practicalities of where to ‘park’ Stacey when the ribs were on the pier for the night we couldn’t come up with a simple solution, so with regret I departed for Lindisfarne around 6 pm.

Carefully steering to the west of Swedman Buoy to avoid the hazards of the Megstones rocks, I paddle-sailed in a light wind towards Lindisfarne. The entrance to the harbour is somewhat tricky, but I managed to line up the brick built leading marks on the Old Law peninsula and found the Triton starboard hand buoy where I turned to Starboard and towards the harbour. In the increasing gloom of a cold and cloudy evening, I began to encounter a very strong ebb tide running out the harbour and struggled to make way against it in the light wind. Some frantic paddling was required and at one stage I had to resort to jumping out the boat in shallow water to tow the boat against the fast flowing water. To add to my discomfort I discovered I’d previously forgotten to close the waterproof zipped ‘fly’ in my drysuit. Cold seawater flowed in and down my legs. I cursed. Paddling into the small harbour where the receding tide was exposing areas of mud, I had a strong suspicion that camping on Lindisfarne is banned so I was resigned to a rather cramped night sleeping on the boat under a tarpaulin. A guy on a moored yacht called Northern Soul confirmed I was correct about the ‘no camping’ rule but sensing my lack of enthusiasm for sleeping on board Stacey whilst parked on the mud, he offered to put me up for the night. After tying Stacey up to his dinghy and transferring bags to the yacht, we pooled our food and drink and passed an enjoyable evening drinking an eclectic variety of drinks and mixers whilst discussing my canoe sailing journey and his previous career as a big band roadie. I suspect Steve was better company than me. Tired after the exertions of the day I began to flag and then started to nod off before eventually crawling into the forward cabin and falling asleep, just as the rain started to drum on the deck above me.

* The tidal streams near the Farne Islands run much stronger than those on the rest of the Northumbrian coast and are renowned for being difficult to predict accurately.

Craster & North Sea Surf

Paused at Amble…

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.

Craster & North Sea Surf

Craster & North Sea Surf

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.

Druridge Bay

North Shields to Amble

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.

Druridge Bay

Druridge Bay

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.

Progress Review and Re-assessment…

As the half way point in time approaches I’m nearing one third of the distance from Southampton, around Britain via the Caledonian Canal across the Highlands of Scotland, and back to Southampton.

Given what’s promising to be the worst summer for a hundred years or more, I’m not dissatisfied with progress, but the delays due to strong winds have been very frustrating and I’ve often been sailing in unpleasantly wet and cold weather.

It’s been a tough physical and mental challenge and doing this circumnavigation solo has added to the difficulty, However, Greg has been immensely helpful with helping to organise some of the logistics from a distance, managing the website and as someone I can call at any time to discuss weather, the passage plan or safe haven options. I’ve no doubt my progress would have been a lot slower and less enjoyable without his help.

Given the chances of completing the 1800 nautical mile route in the time I have available before ending my 100 day sabbatical in the second week of September, I’ve considered crossing Scotland via the Forth Clyde Canal (further south than the Caledonian Canal) as a fall back option. But this would miss out some of the potential highlights of this expedition which include; the Highlands of Scotland and sailing south through the Inner Hebrides.

So I’ve decided to press on and to get as far as I can. And if I don’t complete the entire route then I’ll return to finish it at a later date. I’ve also been reminding myself of some of the reasons why I have chosen to make this voyage in a sailing canoe. These include not only the challenge itself but also the opportunity to explore the very varied and often stunningly beautiful British coastline in a way that’s often not possible in a yacht and sometimes not possible by sailing dinghy. The closeness to the physical experience, the ability to land on a wide variety of beaches and to get up close to headlands, cliffs and to some isolated and little visited parts of our coast are some of the attractions.

So, next I head on past the delights of the Northumbrian coast before reaching Scotland. And I’ll continue to try to communicate the excitement and enjoyment of travelling by sailing canoe as best I can.

Tees and Hartlepool Yacht Club

Hartlepool to the Tyne…

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:

Tees and Hartlepool Yacht Club

Tees and Hartlepool Yacht Club

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.

Runswick Bay to Hartlepool…

Keith and I had sailed into Runswick bay, the day before. Our route had taken us down the middle of the small bay, which is surrounded by higher rolling pasture land on all sides. We’d carefully steered a path between the headlands either side of the bay, where the large swells (innocuous at sea) were rearing up and crashing onto the rocky foreshores. However, we found that the Northwest corner of the bay next to the village was almost free of breakers, and we had landed without difficulty. Dave and Hilary were there to greet us. They had arrived to take Keith and his boat back to Filey, but also to deliver some stickers and spare parts for Stacey.

Runswick Bay, with its sandy beach backed by a grassy hill rising steeply behind and small village perched on the side of the hill, reminded me of childhood holidays on Arran. There, we often visited the equally small village of Blackwaterfoot, with a tiny harbour, general store and bank – where the doors were left unlocked when all the staff went home for lunch. Runswick has no store or bank, but there is a small café and a very pleasant pub, the Royal Hotel, where we had enjoyed an evening meal in a small room lined with many photographs of the village in times past.

The next morning, after breakfast, when all had departed save for me, I chatted to the Cockpit House B&B owner, Jennifer Smith, about the village and its history. Her father had served with the RNLI as a mechanic aboard the Runswick lifeboat. Some 60 years ago a dispute over whether to launch the lifeboat had reignited old rivalries between Runswick and the nearby village of Staithes. The coxswain, a Runswick man, backed by Runswick crew members, had refused to launch as an impenetrable wall of breakers stretched across the entrance to the bay. All knew there would be no pay for the crew members if the lifeboat did not touch the water and the chances of getting out of the bay were negligible. The Staithes crew members disagreed with the coxswain and in the ensuing bitter dispute between the villages the lifeboat was moved to Staithes.

Runswick villagers later funded an independent rescue boat and still do so. Although lately, a shortage of capable men and women able to launch at short notice has meant rescue boat cover is now only available at weekends. Nevertheless, the Runswick rescue boat continues to respond to distress calls and forms part of the Coatguard response to emergencies.

I was reluctant to leave and didn’t set sail until after midday. Tacking out the bay into a light easterly wind took me out to sea and past the headlands. Runswick has been added to the line of dots forming my image of Britain’s coast, and I hope to return one day.

Turning left I sailed past more high cliffs of Yorkshire and onward toward the chimneys and steelworks of Teeside, just visible in the far distance. Another unseasonally cold and grey July day, together with some recently accumulated aches and pains, contributed to a feeling of listlessness and slight gloom.

I talked with Greg about the options. Seaham (more than 30 nautical miles from Runswick) or Hartlepool (just over 20 NM). The decision to head for Hartlepool was made as the wind started to back from the north-east to the north, which meant I was heading more into the wind and that my speed dropped off. Greg made contact with Tees and Hartlepool Yacht Club, where I was made very welcome. Commodore Barry Hughes arrived especially to welcome me, and a small group of sailing cadets (at the club for Friday evening sail training) pulled Stacey up the wide slipway inside the the harbour entrance. They later took a keen interest in the sailing canoe and in my travels as I gave a short talk in the bar.

Today’s northerly winds have made this a good day to rest and recover. Everyone here has been very hospitable and following a couple of beers and conversations with club members, I’ve enjoyed a good night’s sleep on the soft carpet of the club’s bar.

As I write this latest blog from the comfort of the bar, I also look out to the North Sea beyond the harbour walls. Tomorrow the wind is promised to be westerly and fair for a passage North towards the Tyne or beyond.

Scarborough Breakfast

Scarborough and Fair Winds to Runswick Bay…

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

Scarborough Breakfast

Scarborough Breakfast

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.

Scarborough Fair

Amid big waves and fairground dodgems…

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…

Scarborough Fair

Scarborough Fair

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).

Filey Sailing Club

Retreat

Filey Brigg

Filey Brigg

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.

Flamborough Head

Around Flamborough Head and on to Filey…

Flamborough Head

Flamborough Head

More fog meant Friday was another day ashore. Jim and David returned me to The Manor House before returning to London, and I occupied myself with writing in a beautiful book lined study with an open fire. Such is the peculiarity of this weather that it did not seem at all strange to be tucked up indoors with a fire on a July day.

Later, Katherine arrived and we walked down to South Landing, returning to the village along the cliff to Beacon and back via the churchyard. The Flamborough Head lighthouse sounded two mournful blasts every ninety seconds. Dave Stubbs of Solway Dory, one of the two builders of my sailing canoe, arrived with his wife, Hilary. We walked to a local pub for a meal before retiring to very comfortable beds.

Saturday morning’s breakfast of bantam eggs, bacon and toast was eaten in the study with sunlight streaming in through the window. We made plans for the day. Katherine wanted to visit the lighthouse whilst Dave and Hilary would watch me pass Flamborough Head and take a few photos from the cliff-top. We all hoped to return to Flamborough Manor one day.

Back at South Landing, Dave and Lesley (who’d just been for a swim) helped me lower Stacey down the steep ramp and over a small beach covered with small white chalk boulders. In the light wind, I tried paddle sailing for a short while… but gave up and resorted to just paddling. I headed for the gap between the cliffs and a long line of white breakers where the tidal race tumbled over an underwater obstruction. As I reached the headland, a slight breeze enabled me to sail on in the sunlight. I could just make out Dave’s silhouette on the cliff edge. Many small caves had been burrowed out of the bright white chalk of the cliffs, which were interspersed by small stony beaches. Skeins of Guillemots lay on the water, and I passed small groups of puffins which took fright as I approached within a few feet, and took off with whirring wings and feet pattering across the water. The Guillemots made their escape by either bobbing underwater or by launching themselves across the water like the puffins, but without becoming fully airborne. They bounced off the slight swell with a series of belly flops before coming to rest again.

As I passed the headland and drew level with Bempton Cliffs another ‘sea fret’ (northern words for sea fog) rolled in and the wind died – so I was back to paddling whilst following the misty outline of the cliffs to take me on towards Filey. The racket of thousands of sea-birds still filled the air. High above me, nesting gannets appeared as neatly spaced lines of white beads along horizontal and diagonal small ledges and fissures in the chalk.

Paddling with the long two bladed paddle felt easy and I was able to sustain about 2½ knots without difficulty, but it was another 4 hours before I’d paddled past the remainder the cliffs and then the beach, leading round to the top corner of the bay where Filey Sailing Club is located. Dave and Peter Crooks were there to meet me and helped to pull Stacey up the steep slope to the club’s dinghy park.

 

In Fog 30M from Flamborough Head

Fog off Flamborough…

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.

Saltfleet Haven to Bridlington

Saltfleet Haven to Bridlington

Saltfleet Haven to Bridlington

Saltfleet Haven to Bridlington

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.

Stacey tied up at Wainfleet

Wainfleet Haven to Saltfleet Haven

I was woken from my slumber on the floor of the Skegness Yacht Club by the murmur of voices followed by the nasal roar of an outboard being briefly tested out of the water. John, Mike and Alex had returned at 5.00 am, as promised, to tow Alloa back into the haven. However, by the time I’d dressed and walked down to the creek in the grey morning they’d discovered Alloa had managed to return under her own power so they set off in the club dory to move a channel marker buoy instead. Later we drank coffee and talked of my sailing plans. The next section of coast had few places suitable for an overnight stop but with a good wind I might get as far as Bridlington over 60 nautical miles away but the fall-back option was Saltfleet Haven just South of the Humber Estuary and just over 20 NM from Wainfleet Haven.

We then set about reversing the whole process of getting me off the water. Bags were transported down to the creek, Stacey was pulled up the mud, I pulled on my dry suit, loaded bags on board, and then refitted the outriggers which had been removed to allow Stacey to be tied up alongside John’s yacht for the night. Locating my camera and replacing a broken leeboard retaining handle lead to delays so it was gone 8 before I waved goodbye to John, Mike and Alex standing on a wooden platform above me and set off down the creek. Paddling down the fast flowing creek against the wind proved far from easy. I hit the soft mud banks several times on the way down and on a couple of occasions had to jump out into the soft sticky mud to push off. I hoped no-one was watching my erratic progress. By the time I eventually sailed out to sea with a pool of muddy water sloshing around in the bottom of the boat it was gone 9. The day was dreek (a Scottish word which means like it sounds – grey miserable and wet) as I headed for Gibralter Point, and later broad-reached in a lightish breeze northward past the funfairs of Skegness and various towns, resorts and beaches of the Lincolnshire coast.

The idea of making Bridlington was ambitious and it was clear that my delayed departure and the lighter than forecast light wind would mean Bridlington was out of the question. Greg had been on the phone to Nick Vowles of the Dinghy Cruising Association, who’d said I’d be welcome to spend the night at Saltfleet and camp on the river bank. The entrance to the haven was another fairly long meandering channel which was only navigable near high tide. I arrived soon after low tide so I beached Stacey on the sand and waited for the water level to rise. Eventually, the incoming tide swept us upstream over the beach and into a straight section of the channel passing through marshland.

Billy Hill of Saltfleet Haven Boat Club was there to greet me as I arrived at a small slipway on the grassy bank of the small river. After I’d pitched the tent nearby, Nick Vowles came to visit with his daughter and told me a bit about his Tideway clinker sailing dinghy which he’s recently restored and plans to sail from Saltfleet Haven. After a meal of fish and chips kindly supplied by Nick (and deliberations about the next day over charts and, tide tables and pilot books) I turned for an early night, before an early start the next morning.

Ashore for 3 Days in Hunstanton and then Across the Wash

An interlude between one spell of strong winds and another had allowed me to enjoy a pleasant sail from Wells to Hunstanton (see previous post), but the forecast for the next few days was poor – with strong winds and periods of heavy rain. However, Hunstanton Sailing Club had said I could store Stacey next to their clubhouse and I’d found a very comfortable B&B nearby, The Shellbrooke, where the owners had offered me a concessionary rate. Friday was a day to catch up on blogging and planning and the silver lining was that the period of bad weather had again coincided with an opportunity to spend time with Katherine, who’d been able to drive from Southampton to spend the weekend with me.

The North Norfolk Coast had been a great surprise. Huge largely deserted wide sandy beaches and sand dunes hidden behind salt marshes with a profusion of wild flowers and birds. On Saturday we drove to Burnham Overy Staithe and parked next to a small creek running through the a marsh. An attractive array of traditional looking small boats populated the inlet and we visited the well stocked chandlers in a white painted barn where I bought some jubilee clips, another dry bag and some other boating bits and pieces. We then walked in the sunshine along the top of a sea-defence dyke running for one and half miles towards the sand dunes bordering the beach. Each side we could see pasture land, marsh and distant woodland. Along the dyke were an incredible array of thousands of poppies nodding in the wind, with colours ranging from pink, red, violet and on to a deep deep purple. We spent some time trying to capture this scene in photos before walking on to the dunes and over to a breathtakingly beautiful beach and the blue North Sea beyond.

One of the purposes of sailing around Britain (or at least attempting to do so) has been to get to know my native country better and to somehow join together some of the places along the coast I’ve known during my childhood and adult life.  As a child, lying in bed at night when staying with my grandparents in a cottage near Bamburgh (Northumberland), I’d watch the flash of the Longstone Lighthouse illuminating the room as I fell asleep. Also in my younger years were holidays on Arran with bike rides along lanes, fishing from beaches and walking up Goat Fell, over 2,000 feet high. Later, I’d walk along the Purbeck coastline, sail in the Hebrides, along the South Coast and in the Solent, and visit other coastal towns and ports by bicycle, car and by sea. Marking these locations as dots on a blank page would provide a sketchy outline of some of Britain’s varied and frequently beautiful coastline. So maybe what I’m doing is adding more dots to this outline and by sailing between them, joining up the dots to create are more complete picture of the British coast. I’m also creating a list of places to revisit, including Rye, Whitstable and the North Norfolk coast.

We walked on, along the beach in the sunshine, some five miles to Wells… where I couldn’t resist going aboard the Albatross again for a lunch of excellent Dutch pea soup with bread and beer. Sunday was spent writing and reading with a short beach walk and a pub meal before Katherine had to depart for Southampton.

The sailing prospects for the next day were looking poor. My plan was to cross the Wash at the first available opportunity and head for Wainfleet haven, South of Skegness. John, the Commodore of Skegness Yacht Club, had been texting me with his thoughts on the weather the crossing and how to navigate to the tricky entrance to Wainfleet Haven. Les, who helped me with boat storage at Hunstanton Sailing Club, had also provided much useful information about crossing the Wash with it’s complex tides, shifting sandbanks and rough seas. Both John and Les knew the area very well and the consensus was that I needed winds of no greater than force 4 and should time my departure to coincide with favourable tidal streams. I was feeling not a little daunted by the Wash, where buoys with names like ‘Sunk Sand’ and ‘Roaring Middle’ convey an impression of treacherous waters. However, by Monday morning the latest forecast showed and improvement making the Wash crossing just doable. I checked out of the B&B and a Peddars Way Travel taxi soon arrived. After hearing about my round Britain sailing attempt, the driver and owner of the company refused to take any payment for transporting me, numerous bags and bits of boat to the sailing club.

Les was at the club where he gave me more advice about crossing the Wash and told me about his previous experience as a lifeboatman. We looked through the club telescope at Roaring Middle buoy (which looks like a lightship) in the far distance. Leaving as late as possible to give the wind a chance to die down a bit more, I departed at 5.15 pm and waved goodbye as I set sail into a grey and stormy looking sea. At least it wasn’t raining. Sailing westward, I hoped to be swept by the ebbing tide to West North West to Roaring Middle, which would confirm my position, before turning North West to cross the Long Sand Bank near high water. Once in the Boston Deep Channel I could sail North East up the channel to find the entrance to Wainfleet Haven. Largish waves coming from the South hit Stacey side-on and sheets of spray flew across the foredeck from left to right. A couple of breaking waves tried to climb aboard but, with Stacey travelling at about 6 knots, the self bailer soon got rid of any water in the boat. I was glad I’d not set sail in any windier conditions. I was relieved when I could finally see Roaring Middle. At least I knew where I was in the middle of the Wash.  After passing the buoy I altered course to cross Long Sand.

By around 7 pm I was running down the Boston Deep and could see a sailing yacht with tan sails crossing my bow in the distance. I was also aware, from VHF traffic on channel 16, of a lifeboat launch to a vessel called Alloa with engine failure somewhere in my vicinity. Shortly after the lifeboat appeared in the distance and I realised the yacht and Alloa were one and the same. As the lifeboat passed it altered course to check I was okay and we briefly spoke over the VHF before the crew carried on to Alloa. As the lifeboat towed Alloa back up the main channel behind me, I found the entrance to Wainfleet was not easy to find – but the waves breaking over the banks nearby were small, so I simply sailed over the banks in less than 2 feet of water before reaching the channel. It was apparent I’d arrived a bit late and even in the channel there was sometimes barely enough water to keep us afloat and the tide was falling fast. Luckliy, the high level of rain meant there was a large volume of water flowing down to the sea. The channel meandered about one and a half miles towards the security of the creek next to Skegness Yacht Club. I ran downwind, unfurling more and more sail to maintain speed as the mud banks of the creek became higher and higher on each side. The incentive of company and a night under cover, as opposed to a cold night in the boat on a mud bank somewhere, lead to an increasingly desperate gybes as I followed the downwind chicane of the creek in the failing light. As I neared moored yachts, a fisherman on a small fishing boat observed I’d cut it a bit fine. I agreed. John, Mike and Alex of the yacht club were there to greet me as I arrived and helped me tie up alongside John’s traditional yacht. We loaded my bags into a van and drove the short distance to the clubhouse. Unfortunately, Alloa was unable to get into Wainfleet and spent what I expect was an uncomfortable night at anchor just outside the entrance.

I had imagined the Skegness Yacht Club to be perhaps a grand affair with posh boats and a certain sort of formality. Not so, the clubhouse was more like a well-appointed, brick built scout hut, and I’d sailed into one of the warmest and most cheerful welcomes so far. Not only had John provided copious amounts of help and advice, but John, Mike and Alex had waited for well over two hours to help guide me in and help me ashore. We sat round a large wooden table drinking dark ale and chatting before they departed, promising to be back at 5 am to help Alloa back into the Haven. Tired but warm and dry, I fell asleep in my sleeping bag on the carpeted floor. I would be proud to be a member of a yacht club like this.

Approaching Hunstanton

A day in Wells Next the Sea and then on to Hunstanton…

North Norfolk Coast

North Norfolk Coast

The campsite and caravan park at Wells, with hundreds of mobile homes, wouldn’t have been my first choice for a stop, but as such places go, it wasn’t bad. There were plenty of trees to break up the rows of caravans and the showers and laundry facilities were good. Yet again, there was a strong wind forecast but Jon (a friend from Southampton) was coming to visit – accompanied by his mum, who lives in Norfolk near Kings Lynn. We drove into the port of Wells and ate lunch on the Albatross which was the last sail-driven cargo ship on the North Sea, unloading a cargo of soya beans at Wells as late as 1996. Whilst eating Dutch crêpes we looked out to sea at a line of breakers, white in the sunshine, over two miles away at the Wells channel entrance.

Jon’s father had supervised the loading of the Albatross with Norfolk malting barley bound for the production of Guinness and Jon’s mother had many stories of Norfolk during the war and of the great flood of 1953, when a huge area of Norfolk was inundated by the sea when a storm surge on top of an exceptionally high spring tide breached the flood defences.

Jon explained how this area, before the draining of the fens, had much more in common with Holland (which was more accessible than most of England). Several large brick buildings with Dutch gable ends can be seen in Wells. It also seemed to me that there was a distinct, island-like and individual approach to doing things (sometimes referred to NFN or Normal for Norfolk). Shops still close for lunch and the general approach to life is much more relaxed. I later heard visitors to the area referred to a ‘inlanders’.

By the next day, Thursday, the wind had eased making it possible to sail on to Hunstanton, which would be a good location to later set off across the Wash. After packing up the tent and loading everything into the boat, a camping neighbour kindly helped me pull Stacey the half mile to the sea and I made ready to sail. The harbour master asked if I’d rather leave in the afternoon, when the tide would be more in my favour and the wind strength a bit less, but I was keen to get going, so assured him I’d be well reefed and would stay close to the shore (finding some protection from the fresh southerly wind).

I set off just after noon, and although the wind was strong and gusty, staying close to the shore helped avoid the worst of the east-going tide and meant there was plenty to look at as I sailed past wide and larely deserted sandy beaches, sand dunes and the occasional small inlet. Several black or dark violet butterflies flew across my bows from right to left, heading upwind towards the shore. I was surprised to see how they were able to fly upwind against a gusty 15 to 20 knot breeze and wondered if they’d flown from the other side of the Wash. Ocassional walkers on the shore looked seaward as I passed. Three hours passed this way before I rounded the corner at Gore Point and started to beat southward to Hunstanton. The wind freshened as I passed Hunstanton’s striped cliffs (made up of a layer of green-sand followed by red chalk and topped off with white chalk).

After another hour or so I was ashore, helped by Jon who’d come to see me before heading back home to Southampton. Hunstanton Sailing Club had kindly offered me a place to store my boat but there were no camping options nearby, so with Greg’s help we found a nearby B&B and transferred my bags from the boat. The weather forecast for the next few days was for yet more strong winds but Katherine would be coming to see me for the weekend.

Before we went our separate ways Jon, his Mum, Greg, Eleri (Greg’s daughter) and I sat in a local café drinking tea and gazing out over the grey wave-stewn expanse of the Wash. The weather was poor but I was very glad of all the continuing help received from friends and strangers.

Wells Beach

Winterton Ness to Wells – 38 NM and a very long day

At 5.30 am, after the trials of the evening and night before it was difficult to emerge from the warm cocoon of 2 layers of Merino wool, a fleece, sleeping bag and bivi bag. But as the sun rising over the sea gradually warmed the day I rose from my sandy bed on the beach, made coffee and contemplated the day ahead. There were still another 32 nautical miles to go before the first harbour at Blakeney, and the intervening coast, with the continuing swell from the northeast still softly exploding on the beach, was beginning to give me the willies. The day before my plan had been to land, sleep on the beach for a few hours and move on as quickly as possible on the next tide, but I would be late departing and the forecast had been for continuing light winds.

Stacey was at the top of the beach beside me. So, I’d have to pack up, drag the boat to the sea, transport drybags, anchor bag, trolley and all the other paraphernalia down the beach, load up and then pull boat and kit the last few yards down the steeply shelving part of the beach and into the water. This took a while and I then found the mast had jammed solid in the mast socket due to sand, no doubt from last night’s capsize in the breakers. Without being able to rotate the mast I would not be able to reef so I set about flushing out the mast socket with buckets of water and trying to also remove some of the sand by sticking it to the mast with suntan oil and then repeatedly withdrawing the mast and wiping it off with a bit of paper towel. After having more or less solved the mast problem I had a similar issue with the rudder with sand preventing me raising and lowering it. However, launching was a lot easier than landing and by the time I set off at 7.30 am the day was feeling appreciably warmer as a breeze was starting to pick up from the south-east.

My late launch would only give me 2 hours of fair tide in light winds. So I hoped for a softer landing than the night before so I could sit out the foul tide, catch up on a bit of sleep and writing the account of the voyage. Alternatively, I could drop the anchor and bob about for a few hours. Small towns and villages on the coast, each with an impressive stone church and square bell tower, passed by in the sunshine. I’d never seen so many churches along a stretch of shoreline and thought this must have been a coast previously populated by seafaring and god fearing folk and that maybe the particular hazards of the Norfolk coastline could have had something to do with this. As the northward tide slackened, the beach at Mundesley presented an opportunity to get ashore, but the small town dominated by a North Sea gas terminal didn’t appeal and I was also dissuaded by breakers along the strand.

Cromer Surf

Cromer Surf

However, the following wind had picked up so we ploughed on making 3 to 4 knots against the tide and there seemed a good prospect of reaching one of the North Norfolk harbours before the end of the day. At Cromer with its large church and  rows of brightly coloured houses descending to a small beach I paused (hove to) for a phone call to Greg, some lunch, to reef and also to take photos of waves crashing against a sea wall with white spray flying into the air in front of some multi-coloured beach huts. I pressed on passing a long stretch of grey pebbly beach before sighting the wide sandy beaches and dunes of Blakeney Point.

The following wind died and was replaced by a new wind and rain from the south west. So as I sailed on towards Wells I had the unusual experience of sailing upwind with following waves. Eventually at around 6pm I reached the entrance to the Wells channel and sailed over the bar in less than a foot of water. At about an hour before low water the channel leading to Wells with its important north Norfolk harbour was very shallow and at times only a few inches deep. Sailing or paddling against the strong ebb stream proved impossible so I slowly trudged alongside the 3 mile channel to Wells towing Stacey behind me.

I vaguely remembered something about ‘lining’ canoes along rivers, so experimented with twin lines attached to bow and stern and found it possible by controlling the pull on each, to steer the boat up the centre of the channel with me walking the bank. By the time I’d  passed the Lifeboat station I was exhausted and it was apparent there was another mile to go. I’d been unable to find anyone who could say whether there was a slipway at the harbour. Camping options seemed non-existent and after 15 hours on the go after limited sleep I began to have a serious sense of humour failure. At that precise moment the phone rang. Greg told me he’d been watching my progress on Spot Messenger, or the lack of it, and had made enquiries by phoning a few numbers in Wells. The principal of a local sailing school, Robert White of Oceanus Sailing, was on his way with two friends to help me pull Stacey out the water, up a very steep beach and on about half a mile to a local campsite.

So if you’re reading any of this guys, thanks for being the cavalry and helping hugely at the end of a very long day. Thanks also Greg for pulling that one out the bag when it was much needed. By 10.30 pm, after pitching the tent and some bread and cheese, I was spark out.

c/o AW: Departing Lowestoft

Northward from Lowestoft, and a Mishap

I’d arrived in Lowestoft late into Saturday evening feeling very tired after the toughest passage yet, from Shotley. It hadn’t been so much the duration of the sail, less than eight hours, but more the physical and mental demands of steering and balancing the boat in the midst of large following waves and a fresh (force 4 to 5) breeze. So I was glad to be able to rest up for a day and recover. Any thoughts of setting off again on Sunday had evaporated after hearing a wind forecast of force 4 to 5 gusting 6. I spent a very pleasant day in Arthur and Jenny’s company with Arthur kindly running me to a yacht chandler’s for another dry bag and to replace my hat (which had been swept overboard during a particularly strong squall the day before) and then to the beach at Winterton to look at the size of the breakers coming ashore.

After Yarmouth, around 10 nautical miles North of Lowestoft, there would be 40 miles of coast without any harbour before Blakeney on the North Norfolk coast. So my main options would be to sail 50 miles in one go or to get ashore somewhere for an overnight stop. Anchoring and sleeping in the boat was another possibility, but this would be likely to be very uncomfortable along this exposed coast. As my experiences at Hastings had shown, landing a small boat on a beach amidst breakers can be fraught at the best of times and attempting it alone more than doubly so. However, the breakers on the wide beach at Winterton were only a foot high and I concluded a solo beach landing the next day would be doable. Later we visited Arthur and Jenny’s very productive allotment where they grow most of their fruit and vegetables. Jenny had picked huge quantities of strawberries, broad beans and also some artichokes for an evening meal. Arthur and Jenny have sea kayaked in diverse parts of the world including Alaska, Belize and Mexico. They also own a Drascombe Coaster which they sail on the Broads. We talked of sailing and kayaking, and Arthur told me a bit about his second career in boat building. I was sorry to have to leave the next day.

The following morning, Arthur added a backup linkage to the flexible rubber joint steering connection between my tiller and tiller extension. I’ve never heard of one of these joints failing but I’d been concerned about how I’d cope if the joint did fail at sea in rough weather. Arthur later ran me and my kit back to the Royal Norfolk and Suffolk Yacht Club, which had kindly found a space to store Stacey free of charge, and I launched at around just before 3 as tide started to run northward. For a change winds were light and I mostly paddle sailed, tacking against the northerly wind. A strong swell from the northeast worried me and I could see lines of breakers to my left. Presumably, a storm far out to sea, off Scandinavia maybe, had caused the swell which was running in a different direction to the wind. I found a corner on the beach at Yarmouth behind the harbour to land clear of waves and change into my drysuit. A lifeguard helped me drag Stacey back into the water.

As the grey day wore on, the wind and tide died and progress slowed. I ‘d hoped to make the village of Sea Palling where artificial reefs running parallel to the shore would make a landing sheltered from breakers possible but the light was beginning to die so I prepared to put ashore at the slight headland of Winterton Ness. As a precaution I removed the rudder, which can be vulnerable to damage during rough beach landings. A seal kept popping its head out of the water and watched me curiously with large brown eyes as I paddled against the slight breeze and toward the steeply sloping shoreline. I hoped this was a good omen. Waves began to tip the boat forward as they passed and then just before I was about to land a large breaking wave roared up behind me, slewed Stacey across the face of the wave and tipped me headlong out the boat and into the surf. However, I managed to get onto my feet, right the boat and drag her ashore before further breakers caused any damage or swamped the boat. The seal emerged from a wave for a last look before going off to tell his mates about the spectacle. Getting Stacey above the high tide mark was challenging but unloading most of the sailing / camping kit and a 2 to 1 pulley system helped and then a passing  bird watcher gave me a hand, in the half-light, with the last 20 yards. Unfortunately, my mobile phone on a lanyard round my neck had disappeared without trace as I dived into the sea. I climbed to the top of the sand dunes to get a signal and made a few phone calls on a backup mobile to ensure others knew I was OK and that Arthur and Jenny, who’d been waiting for me at Sea Palling, were not worried by my non arrival.

I’d been shaken by the rough landing but set about preparing for the night before the last of the light completely faded. Although cold and moonless the night was cloudless and no rain was forecast. So, after a miniature bottle of red wine, reserved for such an occasion, and a brief meal of bread and soup, I put on extra layers of clothing and climbed into a bivvi bag on the sand. I looked at the stars and the inky black sky overhead before falling asleep. I awoke about four hours  later feeling bone achingly cold. Walking up and down the beach for twenty minutes helped to restore my body temperature. A seal like shape loomed out of the darkness and gave me a fright. Momentarily it had seemed the seal had returned to haunt me, but it then morphed back into a small tree trunk. After getting out of my drysuit and into a sleeping bag I fell asleep again just as the sky was starting to lighten before dawn.