An English Summer 8

 

It is high tide, at Emsworth Quay. Paddlers are putting to sea. A double kayak is joined by a rowing four.

A paddle boarder strides purposefully down the High Street, fully masked up, board under one arm, paddle under the other. He marches straight into the water. . . .

. . . .lays his craft gently upon its surface, removes his face covering, clambers deftly aboard, and paddles out, into the Emsworth Channel.

A bilge keeled Westerly casts off, and follows.

She has been laying alongside a large red brick building, which dominates the quay.

Today, it houses the Emsworth Slipper Sailing Club. Formally, I strongly suspect, from the way in which my feet, of their own accord, led me to this point, it was Crab Searle's Sailing School.

I followed the, gently shelving, gravel shoreline round, from Langstone Creek. Luxuriant green woodland rising, to my landward side.

My path crossed by those taking to. . . .

. . . .and leaving, the water.

Until I arrive at Emsworth. A languid village, dabbling its toes in the water.

Draped about with boughs and blossoms, which cascade over, ruddy, time worn, masonry.

Where the spirit of Crab Searle, and the seed of adventure, which he sowed, lives on.