Sights & Sounds: Poole to Dartmouth to Plymouth

Anvil Point & St Albans Head:duelling battleships

First Anvil Point and then St Albans Head burst from the low grey mist, like duelling grey battleships breaking free from the rolling pall of their gun smoke. A dense, drizzle laden cloud layer had merged sea and sky and blotted out the shore since leaving Poole Harbour entrance at first light. Now a breeze has crept in from the southwest driving back the monochrome of grey, bringing texture to the sea, colour to the land and life to Stargazer.

She has stopped her restless rolling. As the breeze arrived Stargazer stiffened, gently heeled and then accelerated as the mainsail filled and I unfurled the jib. The bow played high fives with the wavelets as a small chop began to build – greeting each with a joyful slap, pat, slap. The wavelets sing as they slide gracefully aft in a long procession down Stargazer’s side; then dally momentarily in a giggling melee on our stern quarter before dancing off into our wake in search of a new playmate.



Alone in our world of blue

The sun climbs into the sky turning our world of greys into one of blues. The blue star on our cruising chute links the deep blue of the sea with the pale blue of the sky. The chute’s bellying orange body aglow in the sun light, carries us west. To starboard the low grey cheese wedge of Portland Bill slides past on the horizon. The light catches the tall white finger of the lighthouse. From this far out its stripes are lost. We’ve got our southing in early and are reaching due west along 50 degrees 20 minutes north; well clear of any excitement that three days of gale driven swell meeting Portland Race may have brewed up inshore.

We’re alone in our world of blue; alone except for the slapping, slithering, giggling high fives game along our waterline and the rhythmic creak and groan of the rig. The chute strains forward like an eager dog on the leash of its bowsprit; eager to be on its way; questing ahead for shifts in the breeze. Forward it surges –groan from the tack. Out it bellies – crack from the leach. Over the swell we lift – creak from the rod kicker. The sun warms and relaxes us as we lope easily towards a line of white cotton wool cloud far ahead on the horizon.

The sun crouched low behind Dartmouth's entrance

A thin grey line sandwiched between the billowing white cloud and the deep blue of the sea thickens as the afternoon passes. The sun turns golden and slowly lowers itself down Stargazer’s forestay. The grey line thickens, becomes first black and then a ruddy brown topped with lush emerald green Devon pasture. The sun crouches low behind the cliffs painting then black again and laying a silver path across the water, leading us to the mouth of the River Dart. To Starboard a shaft of evening sunlight spotlights the daymark high on the cliffs to starboard – guiding us safely between the castles silently guarding the river entrance.

An almost full moon is high in the clear sky lighting our way. We pass the shimmering, spangled sea of Dartmouth’s shore lights and then the purposeful occulting red and green buoyage upriver. The steep wooded banks are an impenetrable deep black; black against the living, velvet, star filled night sky. To port the red flash of the Anchor Stone beacon comes into view. The mooring buoys at Dittisham are black silhouettes hanging above their pale moonlit reflections in the still river. It’s slack water. I pick up a buoy and drink in the silence stood on the foredeck. An owl hoots from Greenway Quay and high above the forestay Venus watches over us.

Wooded banks at Dittisham

A seal swims busily upriver as I breakfast in the cockpit. The black oval head making barely a ripple as it makes towards Totnes on the tide. It looks from side to side as it swims and then dives deep into the tea brown water of the river. In the trees overhanging the water unseen birds chorus. Soprano finches trill, deeper tenor songs weave a melody over the top and virtuoso soloists add flourishes: There’s a harsh “caw” from the ravens or a stuttering, chattering call from an unrecognised throat. A spring cascades down between the trees and playfully dives off the low cliff into the silent, moody river, with a chiming, silvery chuckle.

Fortified entrance to the Dart

We ride the morning ebb down river, out through the fortified river entrance to where the embracing, protective cliffs widen their arms and allow the breeze in. Today the breeze doesn’t tear the grey away as we round first Start Point and then Prawle Point. It does follow us round as we head first south, then west and finally north past the Mewstone into Plymouth Sound – giving us a broad reach all the way. A ray of sunshine lights the Mewstone as we pass.  Red Devon Sandstone, like a ruddy weather beaten face, topped with a green warrior’s helmet of scrubby grass – guarding the mouth of the River Yealm.

Welcome to Plymouth!

Ahead a grey Royal Navy transport blends the monochrome grey sea and land together – masking the join. A fine beige line along its waterline is Plymouth Breakwater. We reach in gathered up by a quickening flood tide. I furl the jib to slow our pace and to allow me to pick landmarks and buoyage out. The sun bursts through lighting the red and white of Smeaton’s Tower up on the Hoe ahead.  There is a carnival air to the scene: Flags flutter, the candy striped tower puts me in mind of a giant stick of rock and a Ferris wheel stands high on the skyline. Welcome to Plymouth!