A crisp bright sunlight spills across the river on this Spring Bank Holiday Saturday morning. Boats forge down, under the Orwell Bridge, leaving the buildings of Ipswich and work day worries behind them. The early birds have the last of the ebb to help them on their way.
Later, the race boats follow. They have the first of the flood to push, as they hurry toward their start line off Collimer Point . Crews ready fragile, but fast, carbon sails, as they go.
I set out to follow the Orwell trail.
Past the ship's graveyard, below the neatly tended houseboats of Pin Mill.
Inland, away from the foreshore, where black headed Brent Geese forage.
Past whitewashed cottages, nestled on the very fringes of the salt marsh.
Over open fields and into a riot of bright blossom.
The path winds through woodland dappled with shade. Young, emerald green, leaves aglow in shafts of sunlight.
To my left, the river glints through a tracery of branches. Framing a gaff cutter on her mooring, sails yet to be bent on for the season. Fresh paint, gleaming, on her topsides.
To my right, bluebells shelter beside the weathered bole of an ancient, bleached, lightening-struck, tree.
The skies begin to darken. The clouds to coalesce and to boil. Thames sailing barge Victor makes her stately way downriver, a stray ray of sunshine reddening the tan of her sails. She has the wind right aft. Only her jib seems to fully draw. And yet, in that magical way of barges, she silently and majestically makes her way over the tide. Slow and inexorable, like the march of time.
I turn for home . Rumbling thunder peals overhead. Rain dances down on Stargazer's deck, as I clamber below, into the shelter of her cabin. An auspicious rainbow momentarily arcs across the sky, beyond the backstay. I make my wish.
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