An English Summer 84

The Poole Yacht Club boats erupt from the Needles Channel. Home bound, from the Solent, after a Bank Holiday of racing and merriment.

Past Stargazer, they charge. With enthusiastic waves we share our joy, to be dancing across the swell, our boats wonderfully alive beneath us. Spray streaming back from their bows. Sails taut as drum skins. Drawing powerfully.

We revel in the roar of the wind, the rush of the water, the perfection of this moment.

Tenacious greeted Stargazer, from out in Poole Bay, as we left Blood Alley, at dawn, on the last of the ebb; tip toed tentatively out through the shoals of the Looe Channel; and set course for Hengistbury Head. Beating, with her long loping stride, under double reefed main and full jib, in twenty to twenty five knots apparent.

Tacking down into the North Channel. Drawn into the Solent, by the turning tide. Making seven knots, over the ground. Carrying long, port tack, boards along The Island shore. Past Gurnard, to Cowes.

The Southsea hovercraft, that English eccentric of passenger transportation, thunders across Stargazer's bow. Come and gone in the space of a few, skipping, heartbeats. Off on her delightfully idiosyncratic way.

Astern the roll on roll off ferry churns steadily by. Inbound for Portsmouth.

Stargazer's sheets are eased now. We are on a fine reach, the fair tide still under us, the breeze down to eighteen knots, in the shelter of the Solent. The waters calm. I engage auto pilot, as we bring the Spinnaker Tower abeam, and the traffic thins. Brew a pot of lunchtime coffee and indulge in a cheese and tomato sandwich.

Through the forts, Horse Sand to port, No Man's Land to starboard, Stargazer sweeps. Out of the Solent. Back into the full breeze. Hard on the wind, once more. Spearing down, toward the West Pole beacon. Skimming the edge of the shoals.

Closing fast on the Chichester Bar. Riding the flood, up the Emsworth Channel. The roaring wind slowly drops to a whisper. Chevron plumed oystercatchers skim low, across our bow.

The memory of that romp, across Poole Bay, in the early morning light, alive still, in my mind's eye.

An English Summer 83

 

The breeze tarries still, in the north east. Throughout the Bank Holiday boats stream into Blood Alley, Poole harbour's only sheltered anchorage, for this wind direction.

They come from near and far. To one side, of Stargazer, is our fleet footed futuristic trimaran friend, of New Grimsby Sound, Firefly. Out, from her home port of Gosport, for the weekend. To the other, Aava, homeward bound, for Helsinki, after a summer cruise to the West Country.

Over on the Sandbanks shore, the Royal Motor Yacht Club's fleet, of X One Designs,  is racing hard. Broad reaching down the harbour, under all the sail they can muster.

The front runners sweep across the harbour mouth and into South Deep. Doing all in their power, to keep their spinnakers drawing, in the lee of Brownsea Island.

Whilst those, still in the full breeze, out in the main channel, romp down toward them. Closing the gap, fast.

The forecast is for a north easterly four or five, tomorrow. A beat, for Stargazer, bound eastward, but one that should have a heavily favoured port tack. Tides too, should help Stargazer on her way. We mean to catch the turn of the tide at Hurst, the western entrance to the Solent, ride it straight past the ‘fully booked’ Solent ports and out, through the forts (No Man's Land Fort and Horse Sand Fort), which guard the eastern entrance. Fallback options are numerous, should wind or tide foresake us.

PS: Stargazer hopes to be on passage from dawn to dusk on Monday. Next post therefore planned for Tuesday.

An English Summer 82

 

A scarlet junk, the flag of Dorset fluttering at her peak, tacks her way through a maze of withies and channel markers. The Purbeck Hills, mauve and mysterious behind her. Treading South Deep's silvered waters, in the morning sun.

A Dart catamaran whistles by.

Followed by a Robber, under spinnaker. Poole harbour is awakening, on the Summer Bank Holiday.

I breakfast in Stargazer's cockpit. A Shrimper drifts down toward us, past Brownsea Castle, on the tide. Her sails robbed of wind, by the wooded cliffs of the island.

At the turreted gate, ferries and sightseeing boats queue, to collect and deliver their passengers.

The houses, of Sandbanks' millionaires row, look on from the mainland shore.

Whilst, at the harbour mouth, boats, out for the day, play 'chicken' with the rumbling steel might, of the Sandbanks Ferry.

An English Summer 81

 

I awake to a silence which is tangible. Sunlight streams through the, half open, hatch above my bunk . The smell of seashore, mingled with that of woodland, hangs in the still air, of Blood Alley.

Yesterday morning, Stargazer beat her way up the Little Russel, bound north .The sluicing Channel Island tide beneath her. Two reefs in the main, swooping through a steep wind-over-tide swell. Leaving Castle Cornet, on the St Peter Port waterfront, basking in the morning sun.

I revise our routing. We carry one long tack, from the northern tip of Guernsey, out, west of Alderney, past the Casquets. If the Little Russel is, water-over-the-decks bouncy, the Alderney Race, our planned route, would have made for a very uncomfortable ride indeed. 

Stargazer slaloms across the shipping lanes. Shaking the reefs out, one by one. Slacking off the rig tension, to power up the sails, as the breeze steadily drops. Twenty knots, fifteen, ten, eight, six . Progress slows. But, in compensation, the wind veers, from north east, to north west. Better for our course. We tack. Now pointing at Poole, rather than Exmouth. The spring tide turns west. Progress slows further. Two knots, one point eight, over the ground. For six hours, whilst the tide runs its course.

By nightfall Stargazer has a fair tide beneath her, once more, and the wind begins to build. An orange eyed gibbous moon, rises from the rim of the sea. Tiger striped, as it climbs though whisps of cloud, then our bright white beacon. Lighting our way. Set high, amid the shimmering celestial firmament of stars. (Apologies for picture quality: moving boats and long exposures are not good bedfellows!)

 Stargazer feels her way in, toward Poole: past the blink of the Anvil Point lighthouse; the staccato fiery flashes, of the Peveril Ledge buoy; the glowing chalk, luminous in the moonlight, of Old Harry rocks; into the forest of occulting red and green channel markers, punctuated with the white flashes of the cardinals, confused by car headlights, street and house lighting, on the shore. The power of memory is a wondrous mystery. Remembered images, of a myriad daylight entries, float before my mind's eye. Guide us into the stillness, of our anchorage, beneath a wooded bluff, on the southern shore of Brownsea Island. 

From her vantage point, Stargazer enjoys the sylvan views, of South Deep, to one side and the man made monument, of Brownsea Castle, to the other.

An English Summer 80

 

Once known as Pelikan, navigational training vessel to the Luftwaffe. Renamed Overlord, by the sappers of the Chatham Naval Dockyard, after she was seized as a prize of war. Today setting course for Sark, crewed by members of the Offshore Cruising Club.

She sniffs the north east wind, gusting across St Peter Port harbour mouth. Deep reefs the main, before hoisting, and lashes a small working jib to the lifelines. There is a steady force six blowing, with gusts of more.

 

As they clear the breakwater, Overlord puts before the wind.  Reaching powerfully, across the Little Russel.

I turn inland and ascend the flights of stone steps, to the higher town.

To stroll among the sun gilded spires.

Along undulating streets which, with the addition of brightly painted window shutters, could be in France.

Like the Mona Lisa's eyes, the loom of the Victoria Tower seems to follow me, as I walk. Peering down between treetops and tiled roofs, whenever I look skyward.

An enigmatically shaded green door, in a square set grey facade, guards the entrance to Hauteville House. Home to the exiled Victor Hugo, whilst he created Les Miserables.

Below, on Castle Pier, Optimists ricochet around the training pool. Propelled by a breeze which blows as strongly as ever. Tomorrow it is forecast to drop to, a passage-making, force three to five. Stargazer lies ready.

Footnote:

Tomorrow we hope to be on passage to Poole, or Weymouth, if we cannot lay Poole. I will therefore be unable to post on Thursday, but intend to on Friday.

An English Summer 79

 

The fishing fleet's plans are dictated by weather and tide. As too are Stargazer's.

The wind has swung, from the seasonal west or southwest, to an unusual north or northeast. And is set to remain there, for as long as the forecasts can predict. Well through September.

The course to Chichester, our putative next landfall, lies directly to the north east . Into the eye of this wind. Where a sailing vessel cannot go. Were the breeze looking likely to revert, to its prevailing direction, within a few days, simply waiting for it to do so, whilst enjoying the delights of a deserted St Peter Port, would be an attractive option. But there is no such indication.

A morning at the chart table has generated Plan B. With some tidal assistance (arriving on an east bound tide), Stargazer should be able to lay Poole, in a tack or four. We visited Studland Bay, on our outbound trip. Studland will, in any case, be exposed in this wind direction. So this is Stargazer's cue to renew her acquaintance with the anchorages of South Deep. 

Our departure time will be dictated by depth of water on the St Peter Port cill and the turn of the tide, in the Alderney Race. For northbound vessels, happily, these coincide.

Today the wind has a whistle to it. It is blowing a six (twenty five knots) or more. Add in five knots of apparent wind, as we beat into it, and another six or seven knots, due to the accelerative effect of the Alderney Race. . . .and the decision is easy. To stay alongside and make our passage preparations.

Cooking gas and diesel were taken care of on arrival. Water is straight forward, alongside with a hosepipe to hand. With a choice of food shops, a short stroll along the quay, I have fully restocked Stargazer's fridge and lockers. Memories of our sixty four days, between alongside berths, prompting me to take full advantage, of St Peter Port's easily accessed amenities.

Tomorrow still looks blowy. Thursday's forecast is looking promising, for a passage south. There is water enough, to float Stargazer over the cill, from zero seven thirty. Giving us an estimated time of arrival, off Brownsea Island, of around zero two hundred on Friday. If the skies are clear, we will have a moon to light our way, through the hours of darkness.

An English Summer 78

 

"You'll know when you've arrived. There's a big white dome, standing in the sea. Opposite the Guernsey Pearl cafe." Karen assures me, as I leave the terminus enquiry office. "Just pay on the bus. Contactless. A pound per journey, standard fare." 

I seek out a number ninety three, as directed. Bound for the west coast.

The glowing white shaft, of Les Hanois lighthouse, alerts me that we have crossed the island and are approaching its southwestern corner.

I alight, at Rocquaine Bay. Neatly whitewashed houses peer over a sturdy sea wall. This is the Atlantic facing coast of the island. Baulks of timber lie in front gardens. Ready to drop into slots, built into the masonry of the garden walls, to close off gates and driveways, against storm surge.

Fishing boats shelter amongst the labyrinthine reefs, of which the lighthouse warns.

And bob beneath the white dome of the Fort Grey Martello Tower. Built on the site of the more evocatively named Chateau de Rocquaine. Its dome provides the transit, for craft entering the shoal waters of the bay.

Set back from the road, between neatly tended gardens, lies a small nondescript workshop.

The home of Le Tricoteur. Creators of my venerable Guernsey sailing sweater. Hazel weighs me up for size, on entry. As I try the proffered garment (it is a perfect fit), my current one is passed around the assembled jersey makers. “Look how the wool has gone shiny". . . ." We might be able to replace that neck, where its gone....maybe, and the hem". . . . "Oh, we haven't used that label for years. How long have you had this?"

I reply that I'm not sure exactly, but in the region of twenty years.

I leave, with a new Guernsey in my rucksack, the old one on my back (warding off a chill north wind) and Hazel’s call, of "see you in another twenty years," ringing in my ears.