Saxon Shore 4

 

Three Mallard paddle resolutely up Conyer Creek. The drakes resplendent, in shimmering velvet neckerchiefs of forest green. Rising and falling in turn, as if on horseback. Cresting a short, wind over tide, chop.

I follow the three aquatic musketeers seaward, past the bare stumps of a fallen jetty.

Out of the sleepy creek head hamlet, along the Saxon Shore Way.

A tracery of sun-silvered branches, finer and more intricate than any square ship’s rigging, reaches into a blue sky. It is streaked with high cirrus and vapour trails. Harbingers of storm Arwen’s imminent arrival, from the chill north.

Beneath the bare outstretched tree limbs, Wood Blewitt mushrooms spring from a deep springy mass of lichens, making a feast of the fallen leaves

Beside me, Staghorn blazes crimson in tangled hedgerows.

Soon the wooded path opens onto long, sinuous, grass covered sea wall . Stretching away into the distance.

Across the Swale, on the Sheppey shore, Don Quixote wind turbines gyrate lazily. Conjuring electricity from the skies.

And the Westerly Fulmar, Speedwell, beats out the creek, through a maze of withies, to gain her freedom. 

Making Ready 2

 

Alan, the sail-maker and rigger, springs aboard Stargazer, as soon as I make her fast to the crane dock. And swiftly detaches the backstay (back support for the mast).

Wayne swings the jib, of his newly repaired crane, into position. Taking over the task, of keeping the mast standing, with a strop rigged between its upper and lower spreader roots.

Alan detaches the cap shrouds and lowers (side supports). Then the forestay (forward support). James, the yard banksman, steadies the foot of the mast, as the engine note of the crane deepens. Slowly, Wayne raises the extrusion, just clear of its step, and holds it there. Suspended, motionless, in mid air.

Rich, the electrician, emerges from Stargazer's companionway, thumb held high. The data, power and vhf aerial cables are disconnected; and their mousing lines (with which to 'rethread' them, when restepping the mast) secured.

Alan pulls the cables up through the compression post (the vertical support, running from keel to deck, beneath the mast) and out of the waterproof deck gland.

At a signal, Wayne guns the crane once more. And lifts the rig clear. James walks the mast foot off Stargazer's deck. Expertly keeping the delicate load in balance.

It is a perfect day for our, much postponed, winter lift. Not a breath of wind, to interfere with the delicate  manoeuvres; and a well practiced team, used to one another and to their crane, to carry out the task . A combination which is worth the wait.

Now, for the first time since her launch, in March 2010, Stargazer lies shorn of her spars.

 Emma, the marina manager, arrives to tail on with James. The voice of the crane deepens once more. Stargazer rises through the still air. Water cascading off the bottom of the keel bulb and back into the dock.

I can already see that this season's switch, to Seajet Shogun 033 antifouling, has paid off. There is only a light slime adhering to the hull. No weed, let alone any barnacles. And, whatever momentarily tore the tiller from my hand, between the Eddystone and Helford, over the summer, has left no scars, on the rudder.

The jet wash quickly blasts away the season’s algal growth, and leaves Stargazer's topsides gleaming in the setting sun. Wayne slots her neatly into her winter quarters, at the top of the yard. Preparations, for our new season, begin here. 

Saxon Shore 3

 

Winter lurks, off stage, unseen. Announcing its presence with chill clear mornings. Biding its time, to make a theatrical entrance. Warm woolen hats are donned. Sails un-bent and stowed, in anticipation.

Yet there is still strength in the sun, once it has clambered to its favoured mid morning vantage point. Warming the Kentish weatherboarded cottages of Oare, as it looks down benevolently.

Shoal draft craft, of all stripes, nestle on mud their berths, in Oare Creek: A clinker built, centreboard, Finesse twenty four. Varnish work glistening gold.

A broad shouldered, Stephen Jones designed, lift keeled Southerly. Twin rudders splayed to hold her upright.

And motor craft of all persuasions. A sea worn, carvel planked, fishing boat lies alongside a diminutive, rust flecked, ex-dockyard tug, named Joker.

Beside the path, a riot of brightly coloured berries adorns the bank side bushes. Still bearing their summer leaves.

Over on Ham Wharf, Greta has struck her spars and begun her hibernation. Lady Daphne holds out, in hope of winter passages, her sails brailed up. Waiting for the moment, when wind, tide, and her skipper's whim, serve

I walk seaward, skirting the marsh. Houses perch precariously on its rises, moated by wetlands alive with raucous migratory birds.

Across Oare Creek the listing boardwalks, of Hollowshore, bridge the gap between terra firma and mare incognitum. Shore life and sea life. The streets, of a cosmopolitan shanty town, in the saltmarsh. 

Aromatic woodsmoke billows, from stove pipes, in wind blown skeins. Here lie pelagic, liveaboard boats. Well found and ready to put to sea, come spring. 

Leaving the houseboats, 'projects' and hulks (listed in descending order, of their degree of decrepitude), to be slowly subsumed into the body of the marsh.

Devoured, mantis-like, until only a skeletal carcass remains.

Downstream, Oare Creek and Faversham Creek unite and flow on together. A varnished clinker cruiser, its winter coat on, lies tethered in the rippling tide, sheltered by tall sedge; which dances in the breeze.

Abruptly, the course and the character, of the combined creeks, changes. The channel swings through fully forty five degrees, to the north east. Its point of divergence marked by a starboard hand pole; and the bones of a boat, which did not heed it. Gone are the cosseting close knit reed beds. Replaced by open vistas and a beckoning horizon, to the east.

To the north, across the indigo expanse of The Swale, the Isle of Sheppey, green and pastoral, offers a bulwark against winter storms.

Saxon Shore 2

 

It is lift out time in Conyer Creek. The high tide is at its peak . Lapping almost level with the top timber baulks, at North Quay. A crane hired in for the day. Craft waiting their turn, to come ashore for the winter. 

A low golden sun picks out the brightwork, on a traditionally styled cutter. Most likely, from her form, long keeled, but possibly a centre boarder, like the boat being lifted. All craft, moored at these pontoons, must take the ground, below half tide.

For, twice a day, this creek dries two metres above chart datum, to an unctuous East Coast ooze. Flat bottomed, steel, dutch built barges, more at home on the Rhine than the London River, lie moored in front of Conyer's whitewashed brick houses. 

Throughout the Industrial Revolution, Thames Sailing Barges carried household cinders and the spoil from London glass and ceramic works, to kilns, at the head of this creek . Here bricks were fired, their recycled ingredients lending them a characteristic yellow hue .

Neat 'traditional' clapperboard houses now occupy the site of those brickworks. Keeping the creek alive with bustling boat traffic.

Working seafarers replaced by leisure sailors.

One aspect of life remains constant, however: The Ship Inn, stands foursquare at the head of the creek, still slaking the thirsts of mariners, whatever their motivation for putting to sea.

Tempted though I am, I cannot tarry. A phone call, from Chatham, informs me that a hire crane (brought in to clear the backlog of boats, created by the breakdown of the marina's own) is running ahead of schedule. There is a possibility that Stargazer could be lifted this afternoon. If I am available to bring her round.

Swiftly, I return to Chatham’s naval dry dock. 

A tall, scarlet jibbed, crane is at work, before the intricately figured Victorian brickwork, of the former dockyard pump house. Now home to the Copper Rivet gin distillery cum restaurant; it’s yard the convivial winter quarters, for boats coming ashore.

On, throughout the afternoon, the crane and its driver toil. With Emma, the Marina Manager, tailing on (front left) and Wayne, the Yard Supervisor (aft of rudder) as a jack-in-the-box banksman. One moment prostrate on the dock (previous picture), to check the slinging, the next leaping up onto the quay, to steady the swing.

All the while, the sun sinks inexorably toward the western horizon. And the skies blacken, above Upnor village, promising squalls. Dusk falls and the wind rises. Stargazer must wait for another day, for her lift. Perhaps in a fortnight, when the hire crane is next available. Perhaps sooner, if the marina crane can be repaired.

Saxon Shore 1

 

Ham Wharf, on a clear November morning.  

Surrounded by a sea of sibilant, wind rustled, reeds and tall grasses. Scented by damp loamy earth, leavened with brine.

Abandoned by the tide. Leaving the Thames Sailing Barges Greta and Lady Daphne, along with a multitude of maritime companions, high and dry. Until the afternoon's flood.

Crouched among the sedge, a fox eyes a small bush. Hungrily. Does a meal lie within?

The starve-acre months of winter are fast approaching; unseasonably mild weather, notwithstanding. Its ears are pricked, listening intently. 

My approach disturbs the patient waiting game. The fox rises to its feet. Stares me in the eye and lopes away. Flowing through the scrub, on liquid limbs.

I am on the Saxon Shore Way: Kent's Coast Path. Walking along the banks of Oare Creek, heading inland, from Hollowshore; where Oare Creek unites with Faversham Creek, before venturing out into the open waters of the Swale, at Harty Ferry. 

The creek chuckles merrily, as it meander downstream. Swaying, from bank to bank, like a rum soaked sailor reeling seaward.

In the still water, on the inside of a bend, an egret studies its reflection.

Before stalking off, with a high stepping, reverse knee'd gait.

Woodland envelopes the path. The midday sun filtering through a canopy of leaves, which is poised between the green of summer and the fiery hues of autumn.

I am nearing the ancient hamlet of Oare. Stone built farmhouses, and the church, perch high above the riverine marshes, beyond the reach of a North Sea storm surge. 

Bemused by a year of topsy turvy weather, winter-bare trees stand beside their summer-clad cousins, on the levee.

More recent housing dares to tiptoe down toward, and even onto, the flood plain.

At the head of the creek, the Three Mariners hostelry turns its weather-worn, ruddy complexioned, brick face to the sun. Basking in its warming glow.