An English Summer 91

 

After the warm windless days, of Indian Summer, the breeze is back. Still from the east, but even beating, Eastbourne is only thirty nautical miles from Brighton (straight line it is around twenty). This is too good an opportunity to miss! Stargazer puts to sea.

 Our exploration of the charismatic city is on hold, until we can next return.

We tack up, beneath the chalk cliffs, in eighteen to twenty three knots apparent, under double reefed main and full jib.

Stargazer reaches Beachy Head at twelve thirty. Just as the tide changes its direction of flow, from east to west. We had to wait, on our berth in Brighton, for enough depth to leave it. Squandering the first two hours of the east going flow. Now we will pay a price, for that delay.

Stargazer butts valiantly through the swell, kicked up off the headland. Through the water she is making just short of six knots. Over the ground we are down to four, fighting the tide.

The wind eases down to ten knots. Stargazer's speed, over the ground, falls to two knots. I shake out the reefs. Now we are making almost three knots. I engage autopilot, make a pot of coffee and a cheese and pickle sandwich. Eat lunch in the sunshine, as slowly, ever so slowly, we leave that red and white striped sentinel, and the tall white headland, astern.

By fifteen hundred we are off the Sovereign Harbour locks. Cryptic messages are being exchanged between lock and Lifeboat, on the vhf. Talk of 'disembarking' first on the fuel berth, then in the locks. An 'All Ships' message that one lock will be closed. Then 'No outbound locks until further notice'.

The reason soon becomes apparent. The head of the second lock has become an 'Incident Centre.' Cordoned off with multiple agencies present. Its perimeter secured by officers wearing body armour.

I moor Stargazer beside the lifeboat. (Her bow just visible, left of picture, with blue stripe, beneath the gentleman standing on the coach roof, of the boat alongside her). The crew are standing down, after the rescue of one hundred and one migrants, who are now being 'processed,' at the lock, before being led away, aboard three coaches.

An English Summer 90

 

Brighton, it seems, is a city of many faces. Some bearing the patina of age. But worn proudly, as a statement, that this city is more interested in the enjoyment of today, than tidying up after yesterday.

I walk in, from the concrete artifice of the 'Brighton Marina Village .' Convenient boat parking, with residential and retail development attached. Plain and simple.

Past stately white Georgian facades, juxtaposed with the hot colours of, New York subway inspired, graffiti art. Separated by the brick reinforced seafront cliffs and a cultural gulf. The link between the city proper and the marina.

A long shingle beach stretches before me . Squirming and scrunching underfoot . The Palace Pier beyond . Perched on its criss-cross Victorian wrought iron girder legs.

Beach life surrounds me . On the stony shore and in the water.

The pier entrance is announced by neon lettering, which scrolls through the colours of the rainbow . Unabashed in its garish excess . Unembarrassed to be what it is.

It is surrounded by a sea of  kitsch . So far beyond cliche, that it has an honest charm all of its own.

Inshore lies the heart of town . The soft organic shapes, of Brighton Pavilion's mystical eastern onion cupolas, add a charismatic individuality to the skyline . A gift, to the nation, from a grateful post-war (World War One) Maharaja . Its majestic glamour an antidote to seafront glitz.

In its tranquil gardens, meditative melodies, mingle with the scent of flowers, to float in the still air. People in groups, or singly, sit in the shade of its trees, reflective quiet and still.

Beyond lie broad bustling city-centre boulevards.

Sunlit pavement cafes, line secluded squares.

Flower decked boutiques tempt shoppers with their wares.

As I return, to Stargazer, a flautist, seated on the beach above me, plays. In harmony with this city of character and characters. Comfortable to be quirky.

An English Summer 89

 

A zephyr of breeze, barely ruffling the water, carries Stargazer out of Chichester Harbour. Through the Sunday morning race fleets, potterers and paddlers, enjoying the warm balm of the weekend sunshine.

Although we are beating, every sail control is eased. To put camber into the sails. Conjure motion from the still air.

Past the West Pole, eleven knots of south easterly sea breeze fills in. Stargazer heels and accelerates. We tack east, close inshore. Dodging the last of the west bound tide.

Catching its turn, eastward, off Selsey Bill. Where, this time, both the Boulder and Street buoys are visible. Although the sudden convergence, of three other boats, in the narrow neck to the Looe Channel, reveals that a stealthy sea mist has reduced visibility to around a mile.

Stargazer tacks onto starboard, her bow now aiming for Brighton, thirty nautical miles distant. Our fellow passage makers melting back into the mist, following their separate courses, to their own destinations.

Slowly, a tawny sun descends into a still sea, studded with (admirably well marked) pot buoys. Stargazer's speed drops to two knots. Near enough the speed of the tide beneath her.

We motor into Brighton. Mooring beneath the Yacht Club balcony. Serenaded by K C and the Sunshine band. 

An English Summer 88

 

The forecasters are signaling a change in the wind direction. The return of the prevailing west or south westerlies.

Stargazer and I, like the berry fed birds of Northney, are rested replete and ready to continue our autumn migration.

The breeze is expected to remain easterly, until Thursday or Friday. But we can begin to beat our way east, to meet the south westerlies. Making shorter passages, where the addition of thirty percent, to the straight line distance, due to the need to tack, still allows us to work within the tidal windows.

Chichester to Brighton is around forty five, straight line, nautical miles ; taking the short cut around Selsey Bill, inside the Owers reef. Brighton to Sovereign Harbour Eastbourne, via Beachy Head, is only twenty odd miles. Tidal rates, except at the headlands, are relatively low, for both these passages. They would slow, but not halt progress, if they were to turn against Stargazer, due to extra distance sailed.

Between Sovereign Harbour and Dover, the sweeping English Channel tides, off Dungeness and up to Dover itself, can be our friend, or our foe. Either greatly accelerating progress (and with it apparent wind, if the breeze were to be forward of the beam); Or, all but halting us, if they turn against us. This is a passage best tackled with the wind on, or aft, of the beam. That is to say from the south through to west. Allowing Stargazer to sail a straight line course, with multiple sail options. Everything from a scrap of jib, for high winds, through to Cruising Chute, for light.

Stargazer plans: to sail on tomorrow's ebb, to catch the turn of the tide off Selsey Bill and to ride it east to Brighton. To pause, to explore Brighton a little, and to update wind predictions. Then to tack round to Sovereign Harbour, timing our arrival to match that of the returning south westerly breeze, allowing us to press on toward Dover.

PS The turn of the tide, off Selsey Bill, is at fifteen thirty, tomorrow. Which means that Stargazer will be on passage until, and in all likelihood beyond, nightfall. Now that the nights are drawing in. The next post is therefore planned for Monday.

An English Summer 87

 

The rhythmic wooden thud, of oar on thole pin, drifts across the salt marsh.

A rowing gig manoeuvres her way, deftly, between the close packed Northney marina pontoons.

I have followed a rose hip lined path, out onto Hayling Island’s North Common.

Leaving Stargazer snug on her berth. Hood up, to ward off the 'purple rain,' from swirling flocks of, blackberry gorged migratory birds, preparing for their long winter passage south. Favouring yacht rigging as a roost.

Soon I am out, amid the meandering rivulets, which wind their sinuous way through the sedge. Down to the Emsworth Channel.

Shoulder high teasel heads stand high above twined and tangled blackberry bushes.

A pleasantly cooling breeze whispers across scrub, marsh and estuary waters alike. The only sound to be heard.

An English Summer 86

The evocative smell of sawdust and varnish hangs in the air, in the Emsworth marina yard. A rebuild is in full swing.

Over at the Slipper Mill Pond, excitement mounts. . . .

. . . .as the remote control yachts dice and duel for victory, in their race.

I have walked along the gravel foreshore, from Northney. Following the receding tide. 

Arriving in Emsworth via the sea wall. 

Pausing for a picnic on the quay.

An English Summer 85

 

The sloes hang, pendulous and ripe. Their purple-black skins frosted with white. On this, the first day of meteorological autumn. 

Drinkers converse, on the benches outside The Royal Oak, clad in their warm woolen jumpers. To ward off a certain chill, which lingers in the midday air, despite the efforts, of splashes of sunshine, to drive it away. It is that lingering north east wind at work.

An egret stalks, in a rill, as the tide drains away. . . . .

. . . . leaving the mill high and dry.

Blackberries ripen in the hedgerows. . . . .

. . . . . leading to the quiet waterside lane, anomalously  named Langstone High Street.