readyabout

Messing About.... The north wind was light; the sun was out – but it was still chilly. That’s the nature of the breeze off the North Sea: relentless.... merciless – even in its quieter moments. Across the acres of concrete with their captive audience of motionless boats, firmly wedded to the ground on ‘acrows’,oil drums and wooden prop supports held in place with wedges against the discrete curve and angle of cleverly designed hydrodynamic hulls with their old and flaking paint, the melee of masts and rigging played a low, mournful tune to the static ensemble. It was the desolate tune of unfinished work, of the intricacies and frustrations of planning and execution, of procrastination, of ebbing time and of gargantuan tasks that can challenge the very soul of our enthusiasm for boats and all that they stand for. I had been here before; many times.... but the images that came to mind on that chill April day were only a few years old, only a few miles distant.... While the aeroplanes from Lakenheath or Mildenhall had roared their war dance overhead, we had sanded down the aging blue antifouling paint on the hull of ‘Lady Emerald’ on the banks of the Bure at Acle Dyke. Yes, that bitter wind from the north had cut through like a knife – but then, there had been as extra dimension to it. Up river at Acle Bridge, the lunchtime aroma of good cooking and warm, beery surroundings had wafted down on that breeze, taunting us with our drying cheese sandwiches and our cooling flask of coffee. I had stood there, taken off my mask and stared dejectedly into the mocking wind, my beard full of blue dust as if I was some woad-painted Iceni warrior about to do battle. Well - not quite - for in place of a flashing sword and shield with a finely honed body painted for war with the Romans, all I had was a paint roller in a gloved hand - and a bit of a post–Christmas beer gut; those jets thundering overhead didn’t help either.... Sontay, now, here on the East Coast in the Walton Backwaters, was altogether a much bigger hull to paint: full displacement, twelve foot beam and a couple of extra feet in length. After scraping off the worst of the aging paint of indeterminate quality from bygone years in the inland waterways system, we delighted the local chandlery by blowing the best part of a couple of hundred on enough good cruising quality protection to give her two complete coats; at least they gave us a discount. But before returning her to the water, there was another thing to do: replace the anodes – four of them, protecting not only the stern gear but also the metal protection strip bolted to the underside of the keel. Some of the attachment bolts were well past it: we would need the assistance of an engineer to complete this task.... We strolled back across the hard standing with the manager in tow. “Where’s she come from?” he enquired as he clocked the four crumbling anodes. “We’ve brought her from Boston,” I said, rather proudly. “Boston, America?” “Boston, Lincolnshire.” I looked up and met his mischievous grin. Oh well, I thought, a bit of wry humour was not really out of place in such an environment. After all, this was the land of dreams, some broken, some ongoing and some fulfilled, where, dotted amongst the grounded vessels, with their attendant ladders and tarpaulins, men of a certain age – and a few women – many clad in faded boiler suits and inadequate face masks, endlessly prepped and planned around their pride and joys while Radio Four chattered from paint-splattered transistor radios punctuated by the intermittent clatter of cups of tea from boat stove kettles or chunky thermos flasks. For the dedicated few, there more elaborate encampments: scaffolding-supported tents doubling as temporary boat sheds and even the tell-tale sight of stove chimneys jutting out above working canopies, while plastic pipes drained from skin fittings into buckets below. Once all this had been salt marsh and mud. The shoreline to the ancient backwaters had begun where the lane and security barrier from the distant main road ended. Once, at the beginning of the last century, when every town had its own dairy, the Titchmarsh family dairy had prospered while the milk flowed; but their son and heir had other ideas. Rather than inherit the family business, he had wandered across the road and into a boatyard at the head of the creek. There, he learnt the hallowed craft of boat building – and destiny foretold a different future.... His marina was dug from the marshes, the office and retail structures built of wood for flexibility upon the precarious man-made land that he had created for himself: a land of boats chocked ashore or moored to pontoons in the excavated marina basin. Our particular mooring was just outside the marina on a long run of four pontoon chains stretching down the estuary, east-west, with the entrance from the east and the western end closed off. The two inner chains were half-tide access – but the two outer ones were full tidal access. We were on the second one in, - between that and the outer finger - about half way down the line. Nice and cosy once moored, but a bit of a pig to get into with the wind in the north or east.... We sat on a redundant sleeper, waiting patiently in the midday sun. Our boat was finally ready for refloating. Soon, the whine of the motor of the travelling hoist became audible – and within minutes Sontay was levitated into the slings for the short, slow journey back to the docking bay to resume her life afloat. A yard hand hurriedly painted the patches where the hull props had once rested, before the boat begun her slow descent back into the briny, to be gently floated round to the holding pontoon. It was early May, the boatyard was developing a backlog of lift-ins due to some high winds earlier in the week, and to save time they asked us if we’d mind taking her back to her moorings. We were taken a bit by surprise by this request – expecting the usual tow round; we were not really dressed for it. Reluctantly, I agreed – always best to keep the yard on-side – and we clambered aboard. The engine started first time: ‘encouraging’, I though. I sniffed the air. The tide was still flooding in from the east and, on top of that, there was an unwelcome easterly that seemed to be gathering strength as the afternoon’s sea breeze strengthened. It took me a few moments to acclimatise myself to manoeuvring among crowded moorings – but we got her away without incident and decided on a warm-up down the Walton Channel to wait for the first of the ebb to appear: as it was, a tail wind and the flood tide would have made for a near-impossible mooring approach into the lines of pontoons. After about half-an-hour – some halfway down the channel to the sea – we turned as it was clear that the ebb had finally started. By the time we had returned to the line of pontoons, the uncooperative sea breeze had strengthened - and as we entered between the lines of pontoons, I noticed with dismay that the ebb up here had barely started! We were, however, committed to our approach. As Mary successfully lassoed an available cleat, I need plenty of reverse-throttle to arrest the momentum of our ten ton charge. Predictably, the wind pressed us on to the pontoon, which would have been manageable had it not been for the antics of our ball fender on the bow. Unfortunately, in the rush to vacate the holding pontoon earlier - so that the marina could lower in their next boat of their behind-schedule workload- we hadn’t had the time to adjust the fenders properly; and so, as the pressure was brought to bear on our bows, the ball fender popped out while we slowly started to come to a halt alongside. I then noticed with horror that the electricity pillar, sited just behind the line of mooring cleats, was bearing down on us! The fender, now being dragged slowly but inexorably along the top of the pontoon, made deadly contact! Now assuming the role of a plastic wrecking ball, like a slow-motion car crash, the pillar was dragged sideways, its attachments to the pontoon summarily plucked free – and by the time our ten ton boat had finally come to a complete stop and we were moored up, it lay horizontally beside us, recumbent on the pontoon decking. A quick examination showed that no great harm had been done. The vital connections were untouched: the base flange was robust and undamaged; only four forlorn and rather small self-tapping screws lay on the woodwork, bent, old and rusting. We approached the Harbour Master’s office feeling like a pair of naughty school kids. Predictably, the friendly demeanour of his initial greeting of us grew stern as we recounted our sad tale. “I’ll be charging you for the repair,” he said, officiously, his imaginary master mariner’s hat sitting square upon his head. I slowly pulled the four little bent and rusty screws from my pocket and we all stared in silence as they clattered on to the office service counter in front of him. This time, it was my turn to grin.... Somehow, I don’t think the repair bill is going to be eye-wateringly expensive. Throughout the next few days the wind off the sea continued to mock us with complex highs and sea breezes. We had yet to begin the cruising season proper; but there was a lull forming that looked like an overnighter opportunity at the very least – and it was high time to get back in the saddle.... We slipped our moorings in text book fashion against the half flood. Down the Walton Channel there were still plenty of vacant mooring buoys and we took the opportunity to practice our pick-up routine. By the time we had crossed the bar into Pennyhole Bay our spirits were high with renewed confidence. With the majestic line of cranes to starboard, and the lonely mast of the old HMS Ganges to our west, we passed the mighty Port of Felixstowe and entered one of the wonders of the universe, the River Orwell. Whatever forces – known or unknown – that conspired to create the Orwell, the plan went well: the place is magnificent! Wide, tree-lined hills sweep down to the tidal banks with their expansive mud flats; classic pubs and sumptuous marinas embrace the indulgent yachtsman while coasters still ply their trade from the upper reaches, shooting the majestic Orwell Bridge and disappearing to seaward round foreshortened river bends as if slicing into the very land itself; and all the while, boats of all kinds cruise up and down the broad river - or bob around silently on their moorings, each with their own quiet story to tell, whether these be from the local swatchways or, maybe from even as far-off as the trade wind routes. We turned in Long Reach and picked up a buoy opposite Colton Creek. The sun came out on cue to bathe our quiet refuge with late-spring warmth – something that had been sorely lacking of late. We were back in salt water cruising mode - for the first time in five years; and it was time again for uncorked wine bottles, delicious fry-ups and intricate Scrabble boards, along with that inevitable and universal curiosity for all passing river traffic as viewed from the security of our own cosy mooring. The coming of the morning brought with it a fresh challenge: the wind was now due to swing round to the northeast during the morning - and strengthen; four or five – maybe gusting six.... We had known that this might happen, but we were gambling on it happening much later in the day. As we bucked the last of the morning flood down to Collimer Point, we passed Safier, a large Dutch bowsprit ketch ‘tall ship’, looking as if she was keen to get in after a long night at sea. I raised the camera to get a bows-on picture – and as we drew abeam the watchman at the wheelhouse door raised a mug in friendly acknowledgement. It was a camaraderie that was appreciated; the breeze was getting up and we all know what it can be like when it has a mind to.... After leaving the lee of Languard Point astern, the full force of the wind fetched across Pennyhole Bay, and built up an uncomfortable beam-on sea: grey wedges of white-streaked water that bore down on us with a reproachful growl. After crossing Walton bar, we were partially protected from the force six gusts under the lee of The Naze. By now the strengthening ebb was starting to leave reassuring wakes on the buoys and we turned into the final reach before the mooring pontoons with renewed confidence. The wind was now on the quarter, which meant that it was partially a cross-wind. We slowed down, ready to slot into our berth – but not too slowly as to lose way and make unwanted contact with the expensive yachts to leeward. I thought that I had it all under control - but as I gave the final burst of reverse, a gust of wind caught the stern and tried to spin us like a top against the stream. Suddenly I had visions of us drifting back sideways down the line of moorings either side of us, beam-on to the tide! No, that would never do. In almost a reflex action, I gunned our big lady across the narrow channel that lay between the pontoon lines and into a vacant berth. Mary quickly realise what was happening and already had a bow line around the windward cleat as I steered round to bring in the stern. Into ‘neutral’ and a dash aft to lasso the stern line around an available cleat while we still had some forward momentum left. I hauled in the line before the wind could catch us.... We were in! There is nothing like the relief and satisfaction of accomplishing a difficult manoeuvre in adverse circumstances! It didn’t really matter where you were: whether in Newfoundland or the Norfolk Broads, the feeling’s just the same – always is. The wind howled above us in impotent defiance. We called into the harbour office to let them know where we had left Sontay; it was all fine with them; we would move her across to our own berth as soon as the wind died down. We descended the steps from the marina’s first floor premises. For a moment, before us, there was the full vista of the sprawling marina complex: the moorings to our left and behind us, while that desolate concrete jungle lay in front; but perhaps not quite so desolate any more. The moan of the wind in the masts and rigging seemed to have turned to more like a whistle - and the sun was now trying to come out. I’m sure that I could just espy a whiff of smoke emanating from a stove pipe above an awning; and wasn’t that the low murmuring of a transistor radio I could hear? As we traipsed across the hard standing, another sound, there, in the background.... couldn’t I catch the faint, but unmistakable, tapping of a teaspoon stirring a steaming hot mug of tea? ‘That’ll make a worried man happy’, I thought.... Behind it all was still the grim, ragged line of forlorn, neglected boats slowly rotting away in the corner of the boatyard; but, by no means do all dreams lie broken – far from it! Whatever I have learnt or forgotten in the half century or so that I have been out afloat - adventure-seeking upon all this wet stuff - there is definitely one thing that I have always known for sure.... ....Ratty was right! Picture Album: https://www.flickr.com/photos/126797358@N05/sets/72157651162904203/with/17932429079/ Location Map: https://www.flickr.com/photos/126797358@N05/sets/72157651162904203/map/

Hi Guys, Thanks for all the appreciation... - and while I can still stay afloat I intend to keep writing about it all! Paul

Goodbye to All That The driver stood up and turned to us all, his features lit by the dim and eerie glow from the purple up-light of the coach seating isle, and repeated his question – this time, louder, with more conviction. Outside looked cold and inhospitable. It had been a long, tedious drive out of the London rush hour - and there was now unconcealed irritation in his voice: “Two passengers for Norwich Thickthorn Park and Ride?” Mary and I exchanged nervous side glances; he meant business - clearly the game was up. We self-consciously gathered our things and shuffled down the coach, mumbled our apologies for being ‘inattentive’, and stepped down, out into the freezing night air. The doors slammed shut with a bleak finality. Mary stood for an instant looking bewildered. “Come on then, I said philosophically, “let’s at least look as if we’ve got somewhere to go!”So, off we trudged with deliberation past the cold and empty park-and-ride area with the soulless features of the Travelodge looming starkly out of the frosty night mist in the middle-distance. It had been just another instance of the fabled, ‘if it looks too good to be true – it probably is’; on the net, the price of the ticket for Norwich centre had been a good thirty quid more.... Now we understood why! We had hoped to get a linking bus at the park-and-ride, but by early evening everyone had gone home to their cosy homes, leaving the place deserted; not a bus in sight! The small reception area at the Travelodge offered some welcome cosiness as we waited for our cab to take us on to the bus station. Our cab driver said nothing as he pulled up outside Norwich Bus Terminal. As we left the cab and walked towards it, we could see why: the whole place was under building reconstruction, screened off from public access with not a bus in sight! Our hearts sank lower. A chill breeze had sprung up; only the tumbleweed was missing.... Our aim was to get to Wroxham and our boat on its marina mooring – but as we tramped the deserted streets towards the rows of pavement bus shelters, it began to dawn on us that everything seemed to have stopped around tea time: we had indeed missed the last bus to Wroxham by nearly two hours! Luckily, within a few minutes, we hailed another taxi and, at last, we were on the home straight. It was ten thirty by the time we were gingerly stepping along the frost-covered pontoon, past the white plastic coach-roofs encased in a thin layer of ice. Somehow, the wood-built deckhouse of our trawler yacht seemed cosy and inviting by comparison. We scrambled into our cold duvet, waiting for the science of insulation and body heat to work its magic. I stared up at the reassuring oak beams of the fore cabin as I warmed up and started to nod off, wondering, in my half-consciousness, upon our future: we had no car this time: it was a one-way ticket.... Yes, we had decided – after much soul searching - to venture back out into the North Sea; leave the relative safety of our sheltered Wroxham mooring – and all it had represented for us as the centre of the Broadland Universe – to head for the coast; back to old haunts that lay down south - into another Arthur Ransome world; the world of Secret Water.... Daybreak dawned bright with the geese chattering away in the embryonic springtime. A couple of early breakfast wraps from the Golden Arches set us up for a last-minute provisioning and spares shop before taking on water and bidding farewell to Wroxham - with mixed feelings - as we cast off, bound for Stokesby. It was a sad little journey down the Bure, past old haunts amongst the eternal sway of the reeds and freshly budding carr. A few hirers were out and about, many showing their reassuringly predictable displays of either slow indecision or unduly fast cruising speed at inappropriate times. We were overtaken just before the New Inn at Horning as an approaching craft appeared round the bend; I smiled as we glimpsed his facial expression and we slowed down for him to safely slot in ahead of us. It was all wonderfully predictable; an almost essential part of Broads cruising! I wondered how these guys might cope if confronted with the sea – and that gave me a pang of nostalgia at the thought of missing all this. The cloudiness of the middle of the day gave way to a beautiful afternoon as we took the space behind a smart privateer on the vacant free mooring at Stokesby – as planned - to take advantage of the electric pillar for some domestic comforts as the daytime temperature began to drop away. They were a friendly couple on the boat in front who were about to be treated to some impromptu entertainment as we make a complete hash of changing the mud weight over for our sea anchor, using the quay heading as our re-shackling area. Try as I might, the anchor obstinately refused to stow the correct way round – until I sussed that the teeth of the winch would only allow shackling the one way as the chain came in. You’d have thought I would have got it right on pure chance – after all, it was fifty, fifty on getting it right! But, no, I was out of luck that afternoon – and it took several attempts. Perhaps a more superstitious man might have thought that it was the river trying to tell me something.... Our last sunset before the briny was a cracker; I took far too many photos until way past twilight’s last gleaming across the still water. Someone just up river had lit a barbecue – and the smoke drifted atmospherically – almost mysteriously - across the river. Mary thought I was being sentimental and managed to distract me with a bumper glass of wine - the same colour as the transient sky. Soon it was gone. It was an early start to take the last of the ebb down through the bridges of Great Yarmouth. We didn’t need to wait for an hour after low because we were going straight on out. The weather had changed noticeably, with a chill south-westerly making itself known by bringing with it the odd icy shower in the squalls. It was blowing a tad stronger than we would have preferred for the trip down the coast, with gusts in the mid-twenties. Great Yarmouth had barely come to life as we slid under the two Bure bridges at seven thirty - with ample headroom. For the first time in my life I turned away from the yellow post and shot the Haven Bridge, carried along on the end of the strong ebb. The atmosphere past the port quayside and moored ships was grey and friendless. A deep-sea tug was reversing up the channel. We hugged the starboard side, dwarfed by the wharves, and decided to put on our navigation lights; it was that sort of a day. Long before the seaward turn, the swell had made itself known. Looking beyond the breakwaters there was a lot of white on the water. As we cleared and turned to the south we got the full force of the wind and waves right on our bow. Within seconds we were bucking like a bronco. The ebb was still alive, so, for the first few minutes we were against both wind and tide. It was now blowing up to twenty eight knots, the bottom end of seven, but at least it was wind with tide, so the seas weren’t too steep. I offered the wheel to Mary in order to do some paper chart-work – just in case the Garmin died on us. She couldn’t hold it; we slammed sideways into the troughs and rolled our beam ends. I quickly grabbed the wheel back. We hadn’t yet installed a new autohelm – and ten tons is a lot of boat to steer in boisterous conditions, even with hydraulics. I was reduced to steering with one hand and operating my old and trusty Hurst Plotter with the other; not ideal, but with an excellently placed chart table right next to the helm seat it was doable. We were barely making three knots when we should have been making six. But, of course, we still had no stream under us. Things got more interesting when slack water turned to flood; wind over tide. Then, the seas really got steep: roaring walls of green water engulfed the foredeck and windscreen, sluicing down the side decks. I was glad – no, relieved – that we had scuppers cut into the bulwarks. It was tough going down the channels of the Corton and Lowestoft North Roads – between the coast and Holm Sand out to sea - but at least the tide was now carrying us in the right direction. The outline of Lowestoft loomed to starboard after two hours; it had seemed an eternity of constant wrestling with the helm. At least the sprung seats held us in our places; a lot more than can be said for our weakly sprung oven door: its contents were now strewn all over the cabin floor. The wind seemed to be gaining strength. On either side of the bows, our two Broads toll stickers, along with the boat number, were attached to white Perspex boards, each one hanging from the rail by three sturdy electrical ties. They were plucked from their positions and flew off to leeward like so much confetti; perhaps a fitting end to them just as the new toll season was about to start, though you couldn’t help feeling amid the noise and commotion that someone ‘up there’ was trying to tell us something.... It was at that point, Mary announced that she was going to make an ‘executive decision’; and I knew exactly what was coming next.... We turned towards the Lowestoft entrance and I quickly made a vector plot to make allowance for the increasing flood tide, which threatened to carry us past and over the nasty Newcombe Sands, half a mile to the south of the entrance. Two ships had just departed and the entrance lights were at red. With the tide gaining strength we could do without any delay that you sometimes get before the lights change. Mary called up the harbour master for permission to enter - emphasising the rough conditions - and the lights changed to green almost immediately! Entering a narrow entrance in a cross-tide with strong winds is always quite stressful, but the relief once we were through the pier heads and into calm waters was huge. Safe harbour – but not quite yet safe mooring; the wind had another trick up its sleeve. As we entered the small marina of The Royal Norfolk and Suffolk Yacht Club, the high sides combined with the low tide caused the wind to be deflected in all sorts of unpredictable directions. As Mary leaned over the foredeck rail ready to ‘lasso’ a suitable cleat on the visitors’ pontoon, I quickly learnt to master some boat handling techniques that I never knew existed. After a brief struggle, we had our warp round a sturdy mooring cleat, comfortably in the lee of the imposing Edwardian clubhouse towering above. We climbed ashore to make ourselves known to the marina manager, who seemed quite surprised to see us - for by now, there was a gale warning in force. As we glumly watched the antics of the anemometer dial, wondering what our next move would be, our friendly manager compiled a print out of one of the most detailed three-day weather forecasts I have ever seen! Our spirits rose as we saw a ‘weather window’ lasting from roughly midnight to the evening of the next day: smiles all round as we saw our escape route south before the rest of the end-of-March storms were predicted to hit. We spent the afternoon relaxing, strolling round a wet and windswept town - and back onboard tidying up the boat: at least a strong blow is a salutary reminder to make a good sea stow! There had been only one casualty of the morning’s drama – the flag pole had come a cropper on a taught mooring line; but we rescued all the pieces: it could easily be mended. The next morning, at slack water, just before the morning flood tide started to run, we departed Lowestoft Harbour in relatively calm conditions. There was still an uncomfortable residual swell from the day before – but the sun came out and the visibility was good. With such fair conditions, we decided to use the inshore route down the coast. Memories were rekindled as we past old haunts: the crumbling cliffs of Dunwich, the power station at Sizewell – its huge white dome seemingly forever fixed on the far horizon; and in the distance, the stark and lonely lighthouse at Orford Ness, with its treacherous shoals just visible half a mile out to sea and the mysterious ‘bomb shelters’ – the long-deserted skeletal structures stuck out there upon the bleak sandy promontory. Soon we were abreast the brightly painted houses of the strange fantasy village of Thorpeness, quickly followed, with the strong flood under us, by the sea front of Aldeburgh, with the adjacent River Ore only the width of a shingle beach away from the sea. Once past the ‘ness’, the familiar silhouette of the distant cranes of Felixstowe commanded the horizon; we were on the home straight! This was classic weekend cruising country with this east coast group of rivers, the Ore, the Deben and the Orwell all within easy reach of our mooring in the Walton Backwaters. In late afternoon, we crossed the Harwich shipping lane and entered the long approach channel to the Backwaters with the conspicuous Naze Tower across on our port beam. It was turning out to be another beautiful evening – just like the one we had experienced at Stokesby only two days previous – but seemingly light years away now! As the evening breeze died away, we crept into our berth on the top of the tide and made fast at Sontay’s new salty home; she had been in canal and river systems for far too much of her life – so I hope that she will appreciate the world of the briny and the fresh, aromatic sea air that blows across the wide salt marsh and winding channels that make up Secret Water; now, there’s the promise of many salt water adventures yet to come. Her faithful Lister had brought us here– down meandering rivers, through breaking waves and into quiet swatchways – in all weathers with never so much as a cough or a splutter. The deal was: if we looked after her, she would look after us. As the curlews called across the estuary, the light was beginning to fade; I switched off the navigation console and folded up the charts. There, beneath them, all crumpled and dog-eared, I found the Broads River Map, forlorn - as if discarded and of no further use. I carefully folded it and placed it in the bottom of the chart drawer; it belonged there, like all the others. I just couldn’t believe that we wouldn’t one day return to that beautiful, restful East Anglian world – a man-made paradise amid the turmoil of land and sea. It holds such fond memories for both of us – memories that might one day be rekindled. I do hope so; remember what The Terminator said.... The Broads must have been the early inspiration for many of those who go to sea. I often wonder if that illustrious sailor, Lord Nelson – in the quieter times between deadly salvos, traumatic explosions and the crash of splintering wood – might have cast his mind back to some more peaceful, balmy days from his boyhood in a sailing boat, learning to sail on Barton Broad.... and, perhaps, those fleeting memories may have caused the great man to smile for just an instant amid the gravitas of war. I’d like to think so. Photo Map of Voyage: https://www.flickr.com/photos/126797358@N05/sets/72157652005662732/map/

Oh dear! Unexpected ‘PC’ issue.... Just noticed the five asterisks in the text of my latest post?! The word in question is as defined here: http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/***** Definition No. 2: “a high pitched ringing sound” Paul

Bridge of Sighs It is as if life anew has been infused into the ageing structure when the low evening sun reflects off the pale medieval stonework on the south side of Potter Heigham Bridge - while the river flows on quietly through the narrow arch. Nature will take its own course while mankind vies in its attempts to take charge for all sorts of ulterior reasons: power, ownership, self-interest.... even for the control of nature itself! The fragile beauty that comprises this windswept corner of northeast Norfolk may be eternally shackled to the whims of the weather or temporarily bound by the possessiveness of landowners – or even the intransigence of conservationists. One way or another, this boating paradise seems always at the mercy of something – or someone - be it north or south of the historic crossing point. On a mad March day in 1949, long before the early spring sun had rotated far enough round from the east to illuminate that ancient masonry on the down-river side - and long after the Broadland waters had been cleared of their anti-seaplane hulks – a motley band of brothers had embarked on a mission: Blackhorse Broad was barricaded from what was perceived as rightful entry as part of the waterways transit by all except a seemingly inflexible landowning family. Most would regard what happened that day as a rescue mission to untie the bonds that had remained after all reasonable missives had failed to budge some old stubbornness in a brave new post-war world. There is perhaps an air of impermanence about Broadland that harks right back to the peat diggers of an England before the Great Plague – when East Anglia was the populous powerhouse of a pre-industrial country. All that has changed – as so easily could the future.... The banks down-river of the bridge are lined with dwellings that seem to reflect this precariousness. Arthur Ransome, writing his pre-war children’s adventures, made a small literary reference to these riverside habitats as: “.... a long water street of bungalows, built on the banks that have been made by dredging mud from the river”; is there an air of impermanmence in this remark – as if the dwellings aren’t quite up to the level of the more traditional residences, like the stately homes around Horning that sweep down expansively from higher ground to the banks of the Upper Bure, where, perhaps, the landed gentry have lived? It was to the Upper Bure that those men were bound on that fateful day. The air was probably cold and crisp, as is so typical of Broadland in March. Thirty men clambered aboard a rugged vessel. You could probably hear the ***** of wood axes and heavy bolt cutters as they were tossed into the boat; maybe the aroma of pipe tobacco as polished briar was tapped against hard gunwales; no doubt there was some friendly banter as camaraderie turned into resolve. As the engine fired up into life, some of those aboard may even have been familiar to the sound: the sound of a World War Two landing craft starting up; they may even have had raw memories of the rumble of the angled bow door descending into the damp sand of Normandy as all hell had broken loose around them. That was then; this was now - a war of an entirely different kind. By sunset, the obstacles to access of Blackhorse Broad were no more. Gone were the barricades of driven piles, tree trunks and chains. Gone was the impasse, to be replaced instead by more reasonable conditional access; and this was all down to the perseverance and leadership of one man: a humble boat builder; but not just a humble boat builder; a humble boat builder with rare vision. He had seen which way the wind was blowing and was determined to make a stand against outmoded, outdated tradition; and he had won; maybe not the total victory that he envisaged – but at least a partial one. His was a vision that had driven him to buy out his boatyard partners amid the stock market panic of 1929 - and that had created one of the country’s first operational marinas and created one of the largest hire fleets on the Broads. Tragically, five years after the Blackhorse escapade, Woods was dead. And then it was just one year after he died, and my brother and I were sat on the opposite bank from the boatyard, up river and in the late summer evening shadow of the ancient bridge, under the cool of the foliage that hung at the water’s edge, our little legs dangling off the edge of the wooden seating. Presently, Dad emerged from the side entrance of the Bridge Hotel with drinks for all of us. It was always a treat to get given our fizzing glasses of Bulmers Cydrax and a packet of Smiths crisps - the ones with the ‘blue one’ in it - probably just freshly delivered from the Great Yarmouth factory. Dad seemed preoccupied; perhaps it was the prospect of shooting the dreaded bridge that was playing on his mind. Would we get through safely? Would the boat sustain damage? Fear, as I would later realise, was part of the sailing lifestyle. Back then, it was a low medieval bridge; later, it was the Chichester Bar and the Alderney Race; and then, just a few years before Dad died, it was to be the mighty Chanel de Four on the edge of mainland Europe - with a strong Atlantic swell knocking us around. There would always be something.... I remember Dad being momentarily distracted by the on-coming wall of fear that The Bridge represented to him: as he cautiously opened Mora’s throttle on the approach, he managed to get himself into a hilarious tangle with the yacht’s running rigging as we passed under that striated arch – completely unscathed! Once through, it was like entering a different land: an idyllic water world of narrow meandering channels lined with reeds bending – no, whispering - in the breeze; paradise to an eight-year-old. I remember the convoluted awkwardness of Meadow Dyke – trying to catch the wind – and then the sudden, unfettered freedom of Horsey Mere as Mora heeled to a fresh North Sea breeze! I remember hearing the disengaged prop shaft whirring madly beneath us as we charged across the broad under full sail. Then there was the Great Trek across the marshes to the coast - and the wide blue horizon emerging over the line of sand as we climbed to the top of the dunes. Finally, as the heat of the day took its toll, there was the welcome of The Nelson Head - ever waiting for us with more Cydrax and crisps! But these are now distant memories, harking back to a time when the waters past Heigham Sound were clear and healthy; a time before the charred skeletal remains of the Bridge Hotel were carted away to leave just a soulless car park in its place. Once, the old trading wherries sailed the length of Hoverton Great Broad; today it has become a nature reserve. Today, also, there are plenty of pressures to convert more land to nature reserves, often with complicit landowner approval. Herbert Woods had taken direct action in his fight to save the Broadland waterways for all. It was blatant civil disobedience – but sometimes, when all else has failed, perhaps we earn the right to take direct action. Woods certainly thought that at the time and had the courage to follow through – and it worked. Will future generations gaze through high powered binoculars from the relative comfort of a secluded hide, across to the northeast - above the bridge – out over the sprawling marshes of what may become one of the largest and most prolific wetland bird habitats in Europe? Will there be anyone ready or willing to make a stand like Woods once did? Sadly, Herbert Woods dropped the baton of his pioneering spirit while still in his prime; perhaps it still lies languishing in the soft Norfolk mud, waiting to be retrieved. One can only hope for the future of our boating heritage.... but anyone who does care to pick up that baton is probably going to get their hands dirty.... Very dirty indeed.

Hi Guys, Watched it several times and reckon he does make some sort of contact with the outer starboard breakwater - you can just make out the sound at 36sec into the video clip. A very lucky ship! Paul

Perhaps this photo album: https://www.flickr.com/photos/126797358@N05/sets/72157648166602503/ may warm people up! I posted it to my flickr site a few days ago: the *Indian* version of ‘The Broads’.... Regards, Paul

Joking apart, what is uppermost in my mind if and when I have to come alongside another's boat, is the damage I might do to theirs - rather than the damage I might do to mine. Regards, Paul

My Dad even took me to the Olympia one.... ....can still just remember bits of it. How sad is that.... Regards, Paul

Kind words.... appreciated. Worth a try, I suppose.... (*Nothing ventured....*) After all, what's the worst that can happen? A few rejection slips? Best wishes, Paul

New Year's Resolutions under review this morning.... HNY everybody! Paul

Ha Ha! Don't know how those guys do it - I'm floored after a mere 3,000 words! , Regards, Paul

Across the Great Divide I was only nine; everything looked so big and awesome; but no, this wasn’t actually the sea. That would come later. For now, this present challenge was big enough. Through the box girder rail bridge the thin line of the horizon was indistinct – maybe shrouded in a light mist – but it was there, somewhere out there.... On the left hand side there was an opening – an opening in that wide, expansive swing bridge; it was as if it was beckoning to me – to us – to go forth, the way the Saxon ships had gone sixteen hundred years before. Dad had the mast up, now; we cast off from the decaying triangular dolphin, caught the nor-westerly on a comfortable close reach and headed for the opening. In the cold, pre-dawn gloom alongside that rusting quay heading on the banks of the lower Waveney, there is that mixture of trepidation and excitement as the wet warps are coiled and you push off into the unknown. It sometimes has to be this way because of the tides: bridge height and air draft are critical; and there is always that slight apprehension as to whether or not, once past the yellow post, there will be enough headroom.... But, long before that, on reaching the confluence where the Yare joins in, there is always a bit of confusion in the darkness because the posts are close together and the channel is narrow. It takes a few moments to sort things out and acclimatise; always best to take things slowly here, while the brain fully wakes up.... The wheelhouse on Broadland Dream was warming up nicely, Mary was at the helm while I stowed the fenders out in the cockpit - and then, out of the darkness astern sped the Broads Authority launch. They briefly dropped to our speed as they came level – and I could see that they were grinning at us; well, grinning at Mary, anyway. Then I got it! She was still wearing her flowery pyjamas! I waved across in friendly acknowledgement of their humour and they peeled off towards the lights of Great Yarmouth. Out here, it was still pretty dark – but the dawn was starting to lighten the sky ahead and to starboard. You could just make out the higher ground to the south – and the thin dark line of the castle.... ******* It was a message – a message for the supreme commander. Nobody knew his real name; they just referred to him as ‘the Count’: he was in charge – in sole command – of the Burgh Castle garrison. His full title was Count of the Saxon Shore – and therein was the reason why they were all there: ‘Saxon Shore’, the northernmost coastal frontier of the vast collection of the Romans’ conquered lands before Hadrian’s Wall took over as a land frontier to seal in the very top of the largest empire the world has ever known. The message from the sentry was urgent – you could see that from the way the long shadows of soldiers moved rapidly in the early dawn light. The count had to be raised from his slumbers; delay was not an option. On the battlements, soldiers squinted into the low sun.... In his spacious quarters within the castle walls, the Count roused himself, sat up and stared at the messenger as he uttered the feared and fateful words: “Saxon Longboats!” The huge round lookout bastion projected out from the castle walls, fifteen feet above the hilltop. Within minutes, the commander was up there staring anxiously to the northeast across the Great Estuary that separated Lothingland from the Isle of Flegg to the north - and his sister-fort at Caister. For over half of a century, these two fortifications had staved off every Saxon raiding party that threatened the valuable cluster of ports that traded within the Great Estuary: they had grown large and prosperous; rich pickings for these Germanic pirates! The Count strained to count the number of ships against the strengthening contra jour glare. To the west, the warning beacon on the high bluff at Reedham was already burning in the dawn light; and already the soldiers around him were talking in anxious tones – for this was clearly no ordinary raiding party; this one was massive.... ******* Sontay slowly approached the Haven Bridge, her engine rumbling at low revs. We were wondering if we’d left it a tad too late and would have to spend the rest of the day alongside the town quay. There wasn’t much current – but the plain fact was that the bridge clearance was now falling. We should’ve used the last of the ebb as we’d planned; too much after-breakfast chit-chat.... I couldn’t look – even if I’d actually wanted to – because I was inside the wheelhouse – but I did hear Mary gasp. “Three inches!” she shouted in at me. Probably a slight exaggeration – but it did seem close. I felt the adrenaline start to rise; heart beating faster. The river was high. The two Bure bridges were next – it would be a close call. I steered slightly away from the east bank to avoid a nasty mud bank just before the yellow post. It seemed strange to ‘cross’ Breydon Water from this direction – and I wondered, momentarily how many times we would be coming in this way in the future.... but then it was time to line up for the next two. It was going to be close; and the relentless tide kept coming.... Made it! Another gasp from Mary; phew! Close one. Four years previously, in our first Broads boat, the centre-cockpit Lady Emerald, we’d had our first pre-dawn departure from Burgh Staithe: it had been blowing a near gale outside – and the crossing was boisterous with the flattish hull slamming into the young flood with a following wind making for a choppy wind-over-tide situation. I could hardly believe the Bure gauge: six and a half feet – and still nearly five hours to go! In the time we’d take to get the wheelhouse down in the driving rain, it would probably have dropped to six. Besides, while we were dithering, we we’re being driven onto the eastern bank with its notorious mud flat. Time to beat a hasty retreat! I couldn’t help wondering, as we turned into the dawn wind and back through the spray under Breydon Road Bridge, what it must have been like when all this was a wide open estuary and ships could sail in from the North Sea, straight over the bar and far inland.... ******* The year was 367AD. The Burgh Garrison Commander stared out to sea – almost in disbelief. The once mighty Roman Empire, already weakened from within by political squabbling, was now facing mounting attacks from the barbarian hordes along its north-eastern flank. The Count’s orders from Rome were short and to the point: Hold the Line at All Costs. He closed his eyes, trying to figure out a way to carry out his orders – to keep his honour. Already, as the sun rose, he could feel beads of sweat under the rim of his helmet. Breathing hard, he tried to form a battle plan. Directly below him - and to the northwest - lay the ship harbour, an expanse of relatively shallow water that would one day become vast mud flats at the confluence of the Yare and Waveney Rivers. Right now, though, the harbour was full of merchant ships, coasters, barges.... a whole wealth of vulnerable transportation that needed protecting. Over to the east of the hilltop fortifications stood the timber-built ‘vicus’, the trade-support colony: a mix of local tribes and Roman civilians; equally vulnerable. ‘Soldiers, soldiers,’ the Count muttered to himself. If only he could have more soldiers! But it was a hopeless demand. Already the legions were spread too thinly – and he was lucky to have his Equites Stablesiani, a crack cavalry unit of five hundred highly trained horsemen seconded from the Rhine Valley, where they had cut their way through battle after battle with the Germanic hordes intent on crossing the Rhine and ultimately marching on Rome itself! As for his infantry support, that comprised a tough, loyal band of fierce tribesmen from the Slav eastern region of the Empire. By now, the garrison was on full battle alert. The castle had been well sited on an outcrop of glacial till surrounded by sand, unlike the typical marshy, peaty fringe bordering other waterways in the vicinity. The barracks, kitchens, infirmary and his private quarters occupied much of the six acre site on the firm, high ground; the castle walls were eight feet thick – with bastions broad enough to take the giant ballistae catapults so feared by the Saxon invaders. ‘Some comfort’, he thought; that would hold them off initially.... The Count was aware of the presence of his forces assembled ready for battle on the parade ground behind him: the scrunch of footwear on gravel, the snort of horses readied for battle. He turned to face them all with his orders for the defence of the castle - but there was a slight tremor in his voice as he spoke.... Later, when the soldiers had all dispersed to their appointed places, he took a trusted cavalry man aside and issued him with orders to ride for the Reedham outpost with a sealed message. ******* It was late October; daylight was in ever decreasing supply and shooting the Bure bridges at Great Yarmouth before nightfall was becoming more of a compromise. Lady Emerald sped on towards Stracey Arms as the twilight closed in on lonely marshes where isolated dalek-type forms stood derelict across the bleak landscape - as if the casualties of some forgotten war. It was difficult to realise that we were travelling along an ancient sea bed; above us once sailed the Saxon herring fleet bound for the fishing port of Acle. Even today, houses built on the eastern side of the present-day village - near the old North Sea shore line – can find sand in their front gardens and flints in their back! A fresh sou’westerly had come up as we closed the dark quay at Stacey. We secured the bow smartly before the wind could take hold but the stern post was loose in its hole – probably the result of more of that old shoreline sand again - so we warped up a good boat’s length to the next set of posts. We were on the point of leaving the next morning when a large cruiser charged in under the full force of the flood - alarmingly close to our stern - and took a bow warp ashore. I was about to warn them about the dodgy post but was severely distracted by the commotion aboard. As their tide-born stern swung round ominously towards us, a young woman of generous proportions grabbed the bow warp and walked it back down the quay heading in an effort to turn the boat into the stream. I think she must have lost it because she was yelling to a rather diminutive helmsman to drive ‘full ahead and to the left’ as she hauled. This had the effect of accelerating the pivoting motion of the tide. I watched helplessly as their propeller plumed the water at an ever closing angle and, predictably, they clobbered us squarely on our port quarter! Ok, it was an accident – but no apology or words of contrition came from the hire cruiser; just a smug grin from the helmsman and a nonchalant shrug of fleshy shoulders from the woman; but that wasn’t quite the end of the story, for as we pulled away up the Bure we glanced back, alerted by cries of alarm and surprise from our brief mooring neighbours. The reason for this was clear: the reattached bow warp was now on the very same mooring post that had caused us concern the previous night - while the ever-increasing flood tide was in the process of pulling it clean away from the bank.... ******* The horseman pulled up at the ferry point, his lathered mount’s breath condensing in silvery clouds against the remains of the evening light. He peered across to the lookout post, waving the sealed document that he had carried all the way round from Lothingland; but the soldiers of Reedham had little concern for the messenger, or his message. They were staring with horror at the large red glow on the high ground the other side of the estuary. ******* As we surged up the channel between the avenue of posts, Dad was singing sea shanties – or, more accurately – parts from them! The sails stretched, the spars creaked – and David and I were at once amused and excited at the sing-song mix of skipper and rigging. It was, to us, our first ‘sea voyage’; well, at least the water had salt in it! As soon as we had moored, the four of us went on a family outing to the ruins. It was exciting, visiting a seriously old castle, especially in the balmy late-afternoon light of a glorious summer’s day. The next month, back at primary school - at the beginning of the autumn term – a classmate proudly showed me an ancient coin that he had found while searching the dusty soil beneath the castle walls. This was at a time before official excavations were begun in the late fifties. I was impressed. That little coin made me realise just how close in time are the events that shaped our history when compared with the age of the ground on which they happened! ******* The struggle for power at the castle continued long after the Romans had gone. The Saxons had their reign of seven hundred years before the Great Invasion from the South changed the course of history yet again. In the interim, there are tales of bloody fights with occupying Danish warlords and of the slain displayed on posts along the castle ramparts – and of a white flag of truce being used to strangle its bearer before the body was thrown savagely from the top of the castle walls. These stories have been handed down from generation to generation down the ages. In Victorian times, quarrying for the nearby brickworks ate into the foundations of the crumbling west wall and it fell away completely; the remains of the wharf that served the brickworks can still be seen along the river bank. Today, unwary cruisers can end up using their props as shovels on the shallows that once marked the Roman Harbour entrance. Many travel on by, often oblivious to the heritage that overlooks them: past the crumbling walls with their blood-soaked stones washed clean by the rains of history. Perhaps, one day, with the ever changing patterns of climate and the inexorable rise in sea levels, the castle remains might once again look out over an inland sea; and if you peer closely past the red and green channel posts on a bright summer’s day, you might just catch the glint of a warrior’s helmet on the battlements, sparkling there in the sunlight....

Please forgive the rather belated reply to this thread - I have only recently joined the forum. We saw her - with a view to purchase - while she was moored at Maldon. A really beautiful craft - but we were similarly concerned about her running costs. Glimpsed her recently at Titchmarsh - and she looked gorgeous. Regards, Paul.

Season's Greetings to everyone! From Paul and Mary. Let's hope that the world will be a happier place in 2015.

Hi Simon & crew, We're still having some work done on her before we're really happy that she'll be fit enough to venture the wrong way past the yellow post.... , Paul

Hi S&S+D, With 9' a/d, could be touch and go, depending on the weather.... Even so, there are plenty of other great places for another *chance encounter*! Seasons Greetings, , P&M

Hi Guys, I’ve been posting for some years now on the NBF - mainly under ‘Chippings from the Log’ – ever since Mary and I decided to retire from the sea and enjoy the peace and tranquillity of the Norfolk Broads. We had two lovely boats: first Lady Emerald, a Broom ‘Skipper’, then Broadland Dream, a Broom 29. As is often the case with messing about in boats, old memories die hard – and we started to get a hankering for the briny once again.... Along came Sontay, a sea-going trawler yacht, and we couldn’t resist! Now, life seems about set to throw a few more buckets of salty water in our faces. So, it seemed appropriate at this point to start a new thread, ‘Paul and Mary at Sea’ in the tailor-made ‘offshore area’ available on this site. The first post went up yesterday – and I really appreciate the warm welcome that it has received; lovely site! Regards, Paul (and Mary!) ps – I’ll fill in a few more details about myself in the ‘information’ section of my profile.

From Boston to the Norfolk Broads Sontay floated motionless at her riverside pontoon mooring in the late summer evening stillness; almost imperceptibly, she seemed to be straining at her leash somehow, like a ‘fish out of water’. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly cruel to deprive a boat built for the rigors of the sea of some fresh briny air, but the River Witham and its associate Fenland waterways had done her no favours: no prolonged bursts of throttle to tune up her six hefty Lister cylinders - the workhorse of many a West Country fishing boat - nor the advantages of salt water on a hull ravaged by decades of fresh water osmosis and scant antifouling protection. Yes, she had been to sea a few times: Grimsby.... Wells.... Great Yarmouth – but only half-heartedly, destined to make a hasty entry to another inland, fresh water cruising area, where she would rarely – if ever - break out of a gentle trot; maybe a canter at best – when what she really needed – wanted - was a good hard gallop out at sea through the waves of a fair-to-moderate North Sea blow! She was certainly built for it – but, like countless other craft afloat, she languished far from ‘home’: for the most part far from any chance of open waters.... If only boats could speak! It’s difficult to imagine that the Boston of the past once rivalled London as a maritime trade centre. Today, one of its more ignominious claims to fame is that of having the highest obesity rate of any town in Britain, while a quarter of the present inhabitants are immigrants. Like travellers in a foreign land, we listened carefully to the answers to our direction enquiries in an English that was not so much ‘broken’ – more camouflaged in its mid-European delivery. Yes, they were friendly, helpful, and polite: these strong and wiry workers from the sprawling fields of the fen country.... but we felt lonely, desolate – almost out of place; maybe, a bit like Sontay.... We wandered past the restaurants, not really wanting the attentions of fussy waiters, nor the self-conscious prices of elegant menus – more, the guaranteed value of the ubiquitous ‘golden arches’, for we were primarily after calories to see us through a long day’s cruising that would start very early the next morning. We sank our teeth into the predictable but nutritious nosh, efficiently served and surrounded by not a single English person! Here, in the heart of the bread basket of the nation, the overweight natives of twenty first century Boston appeared to have fled! At least the irrepressible culture shock distracted us from any festering anxieties that we harboured for our forthcoming voyage: the tidal sets across vast swathes of shallows, the lurking low pressure bands high in the atmosphere; but before all that, there was the Grand Sluice, straddling the down-river passage - lurking menacingly like a darkened barrier to our progress, awaiting our arrival before dawn.... Somewhat relieved to be back on board, we breathed the cooling evening air, the wide bulwarks of our new craft glistening with the first of the night’s dew. It was comforting to have all this strength around us – but we were almost paranoid about the batteries, using the cabin lighting sparingly, for fear of an ignominious failed start the following day; the lock keeper – by prior arrangement – was getting up specially to let us through: a no-show for this representative of the iconic and powerful mechanism for the control of the fenland drainage system was not an option! My knees no longer ached from the effort of unloading the hatch-back below the stepped flood barrier, clambering, fully laden, up to the magnetically locked door in the high security fence, hoping that it hadn’t been swung-to yet again by some well-meaning, but exasperating boat owner, thus causing me to temporarily have to put down my load of boat gear while I reopened the entrance to the river marina; then, down the other side.... It had been a long and tedious loading process; but now we were organised – ready for sea – the car safely back in its parking space at Wroxham; all we now had to do was get the boat there. Away to the east, the huge tower of St. Botolphs Church caught the last embers of the sunset. The medieval church tower, one of the tallest in England, has served through the ages as both a landmark to generations of travellers on the fens and as a seamark to the North Sea maritime trade - approaching from The Wash – going back to more prosperous times. The top of the tower incorporates a lantern-like structure that was at one time illuminated after sundown. This tower, affectionately known as The Boston Stump – or more simply to locals as The Stump - can be seen from as far as the East Anglia coast on the other side of the Wash. A folk tale tells that the strong winds that frequently blow around The Stump are caused by the breath of the Devil. After an exhausting struggle with Saint Botolph, so the tale goes, the Devil was left breathing so heavily that the wind has not yet completely died away.... It was time for an early night. We stared silently – and rather apprehensively - at the rippling lights in the dark water with the muffled murmur of the traffic in the nearby town centre behind us; time for a quick cheer-up, I thought. I dashed into the dimly lit cabin and poured a couple of healthy slugs of rum. There are four Samson posts on our rugged new cruiser: two at the bows, either side of the hawse pipe – and two at the stern, either side of the transom in the cockpit. With mock solemnity I placed the tumblers squarely on each of the cockpit posts. We stared down at these strong points as the rum stilled. Their cross-sectional tops are easily the size of square table coasters; the charged tumblers looked firm and secure in the dim light. Somehow, it seemed an appropriate spot to place our nightcaps. We toasted our new floating world and the voyage to come. Down river, the last glimmers of twilight had faded as floodlights now illuminated the towering monolith of The Stump with an eerie hallowed reverence that seemed to transcend mere religious doctrine.... With one last night time glance at the majestic structure, we knocked back the rest of our drinks and retired below. ******* Hell! Just what on earth was I doing?? It had been just the merest of a half hour trial cruise up river, turn around and come back! That’s all we’d done in her! I’d barely touched reverse.... And now, this! I glanced across at Mary. She was awake, too. There was a rim of damp around my neck: nightmares, I suppose. As I wriggled out of the duvet the alarm went off: five, dark, silent and full of foreboding.... The piece of kitchen roll disintegrated in my hand as I strived to gain enough visibility through the windscreen condensation. Peering out, the dark world looked surreal and indistinct. ‘Here goes’, I thought to myself.... I pressed the green button; the screech of the oil warning seemed to go on for ages – but it was probably just my bleary anxiety. Actually, the engine roared into life almost instantaneously. Navigation lights on. No excuse now. Mary released the bow; I momentarily took the strain on the stern line; then, slow astern, ready to turn towards the sluice. Turn? Nothing seemed to be happening! Then, almost imperceptibly, she moved. ‘She’s a large lady’, I told myself – ‘just give her some patience’. The black barrier of the Grand Sluice loomed ever larger, ever more obdurate and intimidating in the darkness; dammit! I’d taken things a bit too slowly: we were a few minutes late; critical? I hoped not. Almost mesmerised by the ghostly shapes embracing me, before I really knew it, we were in the lock, surrounded on three sides by dripping walls, glistening in the boat’s lights. I turned to see the night sky above the river shrinking into a thinning vertical line as the gates closed. Above us, I could just make out the shape of the lock keeper, peering down at us; he seemed bemused. I then realised why. In the effort to get into the restricted space of the lock without overshooting, I had completely forgotten about coming alongside! I stared up at the keeper; he stared back at me. Perhaps he’d seen it all before.... Perhaps I was just.... I grabbed the boathook and pushed off at the stern so that the bows swung in towards the side. That was better. “Good morning!” Mary smiled up at the dark face above her. “That remains to be seem!” came a stern reply. That was a bit harsh. “Sorry were a bit late!” I shouted up, in an effort to raise the temperature somewhat. “You’ll have to hurry up!” came back the reply with the authority of a sea-parting Moses. Mary slung the bow warp upwards, but it misfired. Hardly surprising, since it was all of a damp twenty millimetres, blue plaited, snake-like monster – and, anyway, her shoulder was never up to throwing. I rushed forward and lobbed the coils back up at him, nearly knocking him over in the pre-dawn half-light. No response; perhaps we were now quits! The lock gates opened on to the vista of a river illuminated by the lights of a town still largely asleep. Mary pushed off. As I gunned into gear, I leaned across the dash board and looked up out of the open side window at the still figure of the lock keeper silhouetted against a lightening sky. “Thanks!” I yelled, giving a thumbs-up sign as I did so. It was light enough now to just make out his weathered features; he half nodded. ‘Good enough’, I thought.... Now, we were beyond the safety of the inland waterway system. We picked our way down river as the town began to come alive, the throb of the engine in low revs like muted thunder. Past the towering Stump, past the shuttered shops, past the prone fishing fleet; past the grumbling docks - and then into the dawn light on the long curving dyke that threaded through the mud and out to the harbour entrance. The ‘sounder gave an occasional bleep as we strayed too near the marker posts: the channel was narrow in places. The channel widened. Suddenly, amidst a dazzling silvery glare, the sea stretched out before us. As we approached the entrance, there was the almost imperceptible surge of a tidal swell. Sontay responded accordingly as her hull began to lift: it was as if she knew she was at last outward bound! We, too, were pretty excited at the prospect of going to sea in our own boat after an interval of nearly five years! As the sun rose, so did the wind; the forecast crackled over the VHF: ‘northeast four or five’; a little more than we wanted – and from the wrong direction – but, as we opened her up, she parted the waves with gusto and all was right with the world! Soon we were out to sea, crossing The Wash with a meaningful surge; the Stump, now a distant mark on the Lincolnshire horizon. As we reached the mid-Wash Buoy, the weather was clear and the reflected light from the sea gave our cabin an almost opalescent glow! Approaching the north-easterly point of the Wash requires some close navigational attention as the sands extend far out to sea between Hunstanton and Brancaster. The deep water channel means a fair trek north, but since we had a good Garmin plotter on board – and there was still a good height in the ebbing tide - we decided to use a ‘rat run’ across the shallower part around Holme Point. This was to be our first taste of a spirited North Sea: with a stiff north east wind curving round the point it was a wind-over-tide situation that threw up a few ‘green ones’. Sontay took them majestically in her stride, while our sprung seating absorbed a few shocks and the decks got a thorough wash down! The rolling motion – for which trawler yacht designs are renowned – was a fairly smooth experience and, after a few anxious glances at Mary, it was clear that the crew was taking them well too. As our confidence in the boat grew – so too was our confidence in our ability to handle her, also. As we turned eastwards along the North Norfolk coast, we passed the spectacular sand dunes that shape the natural beauty of this part of the world: the coastal grass peeling back like the edge of a green carpet to reveal the clear, bright sand sloping down to the waves. Passing Wells-next-the-Sea kindled a few hair-raising memories of coastal sailing here with my brother in ‘Drascombe’ and ‘Devon’ yawls in times when we were both a lot younger and fitter.... As the tide approaches half-ebb, the harbour entrance gets treacherous as breakers form in the shoaling channel. Past Cromer, the land rose into high cliffs – dark against the afternoon sun – with their associated rocky bottom to the sea bed offshore. Our depth sounder profiled this sudden change dramatically; time to look out for the localised profusion of lobster pots and awkward tidal eddies. By mid-afternoon we were abeam the Happisburgh lighthouse, marking a notoriously exposed and neglected part of the lowering Norfolk line of cliffs, where well-publicised cliff falls have wreaked havoc and devastation on many coastal homes in the village. The red and white striped tower is built inland, sitting in the middle of a field – like a giant piece of candy waiting for the relentless sea to eat its way inland and devour it; as it inevitably will unless the continually weakening sea defences are – once and for all - finally rebuilt! As the afternoon turned into early evening, our course changed to southeast, past the very low lying land of northeast Norfolk. Here, at Sea Palling, a series of sophisticated offshore reefs have been built to control the rate of erosion of this vulnerable coastline that is contiguous with the northern part of the Broadland area. Any breach here could spell disaster for the environment, the community and the local economy. For some hours previously, our progress had noticeably slowed as we bucked the flood tide streaming along the coast and back into The Wash. Now, the tide had turned yet again - and with the wind now on our quarter as we made our southerly approach towards the Great Yarmouth harbour entrance around dusk, our speed over the ground increased to nearly nine knots. It was reassuring to be closing the entrance so fast, thereby avoiding too much after-dark navigation out at sea. We sped past the colourful illuminated sea front, the sparkling piers and the wind turbines out to sea. Mary reached for the mike and informed the harbour master of our imminent arrival - and our clearance to moor alongside the Town Quay crackled back. As we turned past the vast outer harbour and entered the Yare between the harbour breakwaters, we felt that deep sense of relief that comes to those who have accomplished long sea passages; that feeling never fades – however long you’ve been doing it! Something to do, no doubt, with the perennial unpredictability of the restless sea.... Now, however, we faced a new challenge. We sped up the river with the fast incoming tide; past the towering, floodlit ships, past the rusting rivets – some seemingly within touching distance, past the towering, buttressed wharves.... Ahead we could see the buildings of the old town with the quay heading in front, our mooring for the night. The danger lurked beyond: for not far from the Town Quay was the Haven Bridge, closed for the rest of the night with a rapidly decreasing air draft that made it impossible to shoot it that night. My anxiety was our ability to turn into the current before the bridge with enough manoeuvrability to approach a suitable mooring position. There were several other sizable ships docked alongside the quay and we wanted to stay well away from them just in case any of them were thinking about departure before morning; better to be on the safe side. We would have to act fast. If we couldn’t make the turn, we would be pinned to the bridge by the strong flood; it didn’t bear thinking about.... A suitable gap appeared. I turned well downstream of it. Sontay responded well, even as we sped ever closer to the bridge in that strong current at an alarmingly crabwise angle! I gunned into the stream and, with great relief, started to make headway. I suppose I overcompensated somewhat, so relieved was I to have made the turn: the quay was swathed in darkness from the shadow of the street lights, making the judgement of its precise position difficult; my first attempt resulted in a soft rebound. Rather than get too close to a moored ship ahead of me, I played the engine in neutral and very slow ahead to maintain way for an approach to our chosen gap. This time I judged it better – and we came in with just the merest of touches. We were far too low to reach the bollards along the roadside, so I instructed Mary to take a turn round the chain fastening of one of the enormous tyre fenders. Not only were the fenders enormous, the attachment chains were too, as was the deep-set piling that held the whole quay construction together! Somehow, Mary managed to get her head caught in all the barely discernible paraphernalia and I had to dash forward quickly to sort her out before the boat lost way. I leaned over the rail and untangled the warp - and Mary - before anything nasty could happen, making sure that as I leaned back into the boat I had the other end of the warp wrapped around the fender chain! Mary collapsed onto the foredeck in a confused heap. She was annoyed and indignant, but I now made fast - to the bow at least – and immediately I could only see the funny side of things, and promptly burst out laughing. At this, Mary, predictably, was furious. I beat a hasty retreat to the stern, still cackling tactlessly, to make fast there too. Recovering our composure, we adjusted the warps to lie comfortably alongside our giant fender - what was once probably an old mining lorry tyre. Engine off; the relief of the quiet from the engine room; calm.... We stared at the twisting montage of reflections of harbour lights in the smooth, undulating water. Traffic rumbled above us, punctuated by the faint whine of a ship’s generator astern. The dew was beginning to glisten. We were lost in our own thoughts, for at last we could both afford the luxury of complete relaxation after more than fifteen hours of sea cruising. Why had I laughed? Because that was the only way I could handle the sudden release of tension at the point of a successful outcome from a potentially dangerous situation. Mary knew that, too. I touched her hand. We both also knew that there might be other ‘potentially dangerous situations’ out there along the way.... We stood together in silence for a bit, mesmerised by the harbour lights and sounds. Then, I dashed into the cabin and – as I had done the night before – poured two stiff rums. I came back out into the cool night air and placed them on our new ‘coasters’. Tomorrow we would shoot the various bridges at first light and make our way to moorings in Wroxham. There was a lot of work to be done to our new boat – but here, in the Norfolk Broads, which we love, we were way within our comfort zone; that was fine within its limitations – but we also love the sea – and it was all out there: masses of it; just waiting. It was as if Sontay had made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.... We chinked our glasses together and drank to the future. It tasted good. Map: https://www.flickr.com/photos/126797358@N05/sets/72157647315202621/map/