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Dover was not our intended destination, when we departed Eastbourne. But delays, due to light winds, early on; and our, later, detour around the gunnery range, meant that there was insufficient tide, to make Ramsgate. As it turns out, serendipity has smiled upon Stargazer, as she so often does.

Rudolf, our super-sized, high visibility ball fender, suffered burns, on the first of the chill nights. When Stargazer's forgetful skipper fired up the heater. Without first retrieving him from the starboard quarter. Where the high temperature exhaust gasses are vented. A brittle, brown, blister now sprouts from his smooth skin. A scab likely to burst, if he is put under pressure.

Fortunately, Dover is home to Sharp & Enright. A traditional ships' chandler. A type rarely found today. Small of frontage, but large of stockholding. Within, workmanlike essentials, to meet any conceivable marine contingency, will be found. The antithesis of many, more contempoary, rivals. Whose stores have degenerated into mere boutiques, dedicated to designer sailing apparel. With a few token screws and shackles, in bijou bubble packs, on sale to add nautical colour.

Dover's other great benefit, is the quality of its shelter, in a northerly blow. Such as the one presently rattling Stargazer's rigging and forecast to build. The addition of an outer wave break (the winter before last), has tamed the surge, which delayed the opening of the 'new' marina. (Another part of the waterfront upgrade programme). Whereas, an uncomfortable scend soon builds, in the outer harbour of Ramsgate. 

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The smiles are broad, upon the Dover promenade. Or, to give it the official title: Marina Curve. (Part of the ongoing uplift of waterfront amenities)

Live music and deckchairs are provided. Bring your own beverages. Enjoy a Sunday afternoon sing along.

Stargazer left Eastbourne in the pre-dawn twilight. Headed for the shimmering bright lights of Hastings.

We watch as the sun claws its way clear of a fug of low cloud.

Gilding the cliffs.

In Stargazer's cockpit, her skipper is soon peeling off the layers. The run of early onset, autumnal mornings, has been punctuated by a shorts and polo shirt day.

Stargazer reels in the black silhouettes, on the horizon. A fair tide beneath her. The breeze on her quarter. Until the Dungeness power stations have colour and texture, as well as shape.

We shave the tip of the spit close. Having been chased further south, than we would have wished, by live firing on the Lydd gunnery range.

The speed of the tide, hereabouts, sweeps all but the largest shingle away. The remaining pebbles stack at a sharp angle. Giving deep water near in and no shelter for the fishing boats. Which must be hauled, beyond the reach of the sea, by bulldozers.

Stargazer runs before a rising breeze. Under main only. The white cliffs of Dover ahead.

The town is eclipsed by the sea wall of the port. Which is, in turn, dwarfed by the chalk face of the South Foreland. Approaching from the south, the entrance is difficult to discern. But critical not to miss. For the tide is so swift that a return would be slow work, at best. Or, with the wind behind us, in all likelihood, not possible.

Stargazer picks her moment to gybe, across the tide. We sweep into the harbour. Going almost as fast sideways as forwards. Port Control conjouring a suitable gap, in the stream of traffic.

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More often than not, Stargazer finds herself the smallest boat, on passage, in any port that she visits.

But, shortly after we arrived, a sixteen foot Wayfarer dinghy made fast beside us. Swiftly erecting a commodious boom tent. Before the sun set and an evening chill set in.

An ingenious, folding, 'gallows' spreads the canvas roof and sides wide. With the boom, resting upon it, to act as a ridge pole. Affording full, sitting, headroom within.

The tentacles, of autumn, may grip the temperatures, of the extremeties of the day. However, by mid morning, a summer heat shimmers in the still air, of Sovereign Harbour. Tempting one and all to linger, whilst the tide rises.

Aboard the Wayfarer, a folding solar panel recharges navigation devices. Before she puts to to sea, through the lock. Bound for Beachy Head, and beyond.

Leaving, as Stargazer's yarning partner, the forty six foot, Our Lizzie. Her rich history proudly recounted by her current owner: Through fishing vessel, inter-war gentelman's yacht, Dunkirk 'Little Ship' and Admiralty gun-boat. To a full restoration, in the skilled hands of, the shipwrights-in-training of, the Lowestoft International Boatbuilding College (LIBC). Emerging to begin a new career, providing bespoke 'sailing adventures,' out of the Royal Clarence, in Gosport. And an elegant floating home, to her skipper and first mate.

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Beachy Head stands bold. Beneath a thunderous purple sky. Dwarfing the, red and white striped, light tower at its feet.

Stargazer barrels by. As downdraughts spill from the lofty cliff face. Her skipper playing the main sheet, to keep her on her feet. As the wind pipes up and down. Whilst dancing a jig, around the compass rose.

The pre-dawn forecast check had revealed our weather window.

Stargazer catches the first of the ebb. Two precautionary reefs in her mainsail. For twenty five knots, of north west wind, are predicted.

Although, the breeze is no more than twelve knots, within the shelter of Chichester harbour.

We shake the reefs out, off the West Pole. As the wind steadies to eighteen knots. On the horizon, the new-risen sun freshens the face, of the Isle of Wight, with daubs of bright colour. 

 Stargazer romps through Shingle Street. (The shortcut, through the reefs, off Selsey Bill). A passage-making breeze on her quarter. The tang of airborne salt upon my lips.

Stargazer scuds past Littlehampton and Shoreham. Staying well out, where the wind is unencumbered by the land's drag. And the fair tide, stronger.

Stargazer ducks north of the windfarm, off Brighton. The blades, of its turbines, may spin merrily. But, the wind is unmistakably dropping.

I hoist Stargazer's cruising chute. In order to maintain the speed required, for us to round Beachy Head, before the tide turns. 

Off Newhaven, the skies darken. Refreshing the wind's vigour. We drop the chute. Pull in a reef. Then another. Stargazer streaks east.

We round Beachy Head like a racing mark. Taking advantage of the height of the tide, and a 'bend' in the breeze, to come up onto a beat. Close in. Stargazer dodging, the pummeling gusts, like a feral street-fighter. Skirting the shallows off Eastbourne Pier, to lay the harbour entrance, in a single tack.

We drop sail off Sovereign Harbour. Mooring up, in the stately presence of the St Ives lugger 'Our Lizzie.' Last of the in the line, of prewar, wind driven, drift trawlers. After a passage, which was definitely worth the wait.

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 Shade-giving hats are de rigueur, for the shoreside skippers, of the radio-controlled yachts. Who peer into the low sun, on this crisp autumnal morning. Racing their boats on the Slipper Mill Pond.

The ensign snaps and cracks, in a stiff north west breeze, above the former mill house. Now home to the Emsworth Slipper Sailing Club, 

As I left Northney, the ebb was well underway. Promising dry-shod passage, along the high tide line. Where the gravel is as firm as any footpath.

 Its emerald, low water, ‘lawn’ is fully revealed, by the time that I have crossed the Hayling Island bridge, to reach the Langstone Tide Mill,

The tide retreats, as I walk. Leaving a maze of sinuous silver rivulets, snaking across the saltings.

Nearing Emsworth, the Red Fox sits high and dry on her mud berth.

Whilst tenders cluster on the hard. Sheltered from the wind. Basking beneath a clear blue sky.

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The wind's whistle is up an octave, or two, today.

Windsurfers streak across Langstone harbour. Skimming over marching whitecaps.

As I follow the shingle beach, of Hayling Island's western shore, south.

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In case the morning forecast flips back, in Stargazer's favour, I set a zero three thirty alarm. Alas, Meteo Consult shows thirty knots off Selsey Bill, at that very moment. Although, in the still darkness, of the upper reaches of Chichester harbour, it is hard to credit.

A metal tug of war ensues. Set sail, based on the conditions around me; or trust to Meteo Consult's prediction? Then, I remember the last time that I ignored Meteo Consult. The consequence? Riding out, the seventy mile per hour, Storm Evert, in an exposed anchorage, in Scilly.

Suddenly, a day or two more, of walking the saltings and woods, of the estuary, with Stargazer on a sheltered berth, seems an appealing notion.

By mid morning, Stargazer's skipper's washing streams, horizontally, from a line strung above her foredeck. Whilst a rising wind whistles overhead.

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An ethereal light bathes the saltings. Its purity strangely at odds with the black sky, from whence it comes.

Out in the Emsworth channel, a boat gently feels her way up harbour. Genoa drawing. The first of the flood beneath her.

In the fields, cattle graze. Beneath billowing clouds. Which speak of an unstable atmosphere. As does the morning forecast. Now predicting thirty knots of breeze, for both Monday and Tuesday.

Enough to persuade Stargazer, and her skipper, to squander two days' fair tides. By remaining within the shelter of Northney, until the breeze drops into the twenties. Which it may, by Wednesday.