The sailing barge Victor lies moored beneath the grand colonnades of the former Customs House, on the Ipswich waterfront.
Stargazer wound her way upriver, through prime Suffolk parkland, past the fairy tale folly. Built by a member of the wealthy Paul dynasty, of barge owners, millers and maltsters.
Under the outstretched arms of the Orwell bridge. The road traffic invisible, but audible as a swishing roar.
Stargazer rounds a starboard hand mark. The steel pilings of a quay and tall cranes appear. We have arrived in the port of Ipswich. I radio the lock. "You have a green to enter."
Slowly the water level rises, until the gates ahead of us swing open, to reveal the wet dock. A grain ship is moored alongside the quay, hatches open. Behind the ship, waterside apartment blocks, named after the mills which once stood on their plots (as recently as when I kept Missee Lee on the Orwell).
We tie up in the heart of town.
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