An English Summer 77

 

Serious Sunday boat-project work is afoot, between tides, on the slipway. Aboard a stout, double ended, displacement motor-cruiser, named for the beguiling  port, on the south coast of Ireland.

I am in Saint Sampson, a couple of miles to the north of St Peter Port.

I have walked up, along the coast road. Out from beneath the tall genteel facades.

Following the sweep of Belgrave Bay. Past pockets of offices and industry, into Guernsey's suburbia. The receding tide seething and surging, on the shingle shore, beside me. Baring dragon's teeth of rock, as it leaves.

I climb the battlements of Vale Castle.

Below me, a Westerly Fulmar, double reefed, beats her way up the Little Russel, past the Brehon Tower. Bucking and rearing, as she rides the swell.

In Bordeaux Harbour (north of Saint Sampson), the tide is out.

Fishing boats lounge between its natural rock walls. . . . 

. . . .reclining in the shade of the wooded shore.

In the deep water pool, known as La Vieille, small craft lie afloat, on an ultramarine blue sea, at their summer moorings. Protected by long breakwaters of granite. Fully at low tide. Less so, one suspects, with ten metres of rise, at high water.

An English Summer 76

 

The Commodore Clipper steams up the Little Russel, past Havelet Bay. Inbound for St Peter Port, with a cargo of freight, passengers and cars; next stop Portsmouth.

Impish sunbeams dance their way along the gaunt battlements, of Castle Cornet.

Leaving a fleeting luminous trail, in their wake.

With a skip, they vault the Russel, to alight on Sark.

And carouse their carefree way, along its length.

In St Peter Port harbour mouth. . . .

. . . .a solitary French boat, slips into port. To be greeted by a watchful dory.

Before her lies the exotically castellated skyline; and all important, inner harbour cill, which keeps Stargazer afloat within. Its stonework visible, as ten metres of tide drains away, before it.

An English Summer 75

 

Stargazer sits amid a convivial band of 'thirty footers,' in St Peter Port harbour. Tanya, our East Coast colleague, from the Orwell, is alongside. Beyond her lies, Neville Featherstone's, Westerly Fulmar, Juno. No longer owned by the pilot book author, but on her maiden voyage, under enthusiastic new command . Woody, another East Coast boat, out of Oostende on the Belgian shore, is across the pontoon. Her crew took Stargazer's lines, on arrival at the quarantine pontoons. With the results of their PCR tests (required by those entering from beyond the Common Travel Area) through, they are free to join us.

Beyond this small community, the harbour is eerily quiet, by any standards, let alone those of the height of the Guernsey summer season. The Yang, to the Yin, of the 'fully booked,' ports of the south and southwest coasts of England. A once in a lifetime opportunity to be savoured, by the lucky visitor; if not by those whose livelihoods depend on migratory cruising boats.

Today's shore-side mission is to obtain white diesel (see footnote). I set off, up the now familiar steps, carrying two empty jerry cans.

Navigating by an eclectic mixture of landmarks : Keep taking the flights of steps, until Fat Rascal's. . . .

. . . .Onto the road, up past the Law Courts. . . .

. . . .Carry on ascending ; keeping Victoria Tower to the right. . . . 

. . . .Turn right, into a leafy residential street.

 There Doyle Motors, showroom and forecourt, lies within a quadrangle of houses, accessed, on two sides, by an alleyway.

Before limiting my mobility, by filling the cans, I detour to Victoria Tower. It Stands on a grassy mound, two streets away. Commanding a view, out over the rooftops and cranes, of St Peter Port, across the Little Russel to Herm and Jethou.

White Diesel Footnote:

Stargazer runs on fully taxed, and therefore unmarked, or white, diesel. As is the European standard, for both boats and road vehicles. In the UK the standard is for boats to run on, so called, red diesel. Hence, in all bar two, UK ports only red diesel is available on the dockside. This is fuel on which excise duty is paid, but not VAT. A red dye is added to it, so that its use may be readily monitored. 

Within the EU, it is illegal to sail with marked diesel in the boat's tanks . In practice the French only object if marked diesel is carried in cans, outside the vessel's main tank . However the Belgians take a strong stance, seeking out visiting UK boats, dipping their tanks and fining those, where red diesel is found ( at one euro per litre). In the Netherlands too, in my experience, after asking to see VAT status proof, for the boat, boarding customs officials next ask about diesel provenance. Hence, as a boat which spends most of her time cruising European waters, Stargazer runs on white diesel . Which means a walk to a roadside forecourt, for a fill up, when in the UK.

An English Summer 74

 

I strike out, from the waterfront, switching a hefty holdall, of accumulated washing, from hand to hand, to relieve its weight.

Taking the shorter, but steeper route. . . . .

. . . . .up well worn stone steps, sandwiched between the buildings clinging to the hillside, above the harbour.

Away from the bustling High Street, with its big name stores and well groomed facades.

Into residential streets, zig-zaging their way up the improbable slope.

Up onto the exotically spired and minareted, St Peter Port skyline. On a day when a warm mizzle mists my glasses as I walk.

I find myself on a street simply known as Vauvert. Home to a cluster of ethnic eateries and the Lavoir Normand. I leave my motley collection of salty and sandy towels, bed linen and clothes with them, for an afternoon collection. 

Noticing a barbers, I take the opportunity to have three months of unruly growth shorn. Striking lucky, when I ask if they accept "walk ins." They don't, but they've just had a no-show. . . .

The clouds have parted, by the time I return to the harbour, a rucksack full of fresh groceries on my back. There will be proper cooking, once more, aboard Stargazer tonight.

As I approach, I realise that Stargazer is berthed next to Tanya, a boat we were alongside in Levington, during our spring shakedown cruise. And whose owner rose at dawn to help extract us from a tight berth. Further down the pontoons, the Hallberg-Rassy 342, Mingarry, is making fast. We met her last in Trebeurden. The old adage that,"If you stay in St Peter Port, for long enough, you will meet every sailing acquaintance you ever knew," holds true.

An English Summer 73

 

Stargazer lies secured beneath the jauntily painted shops, boutiques and bars of the St Peter Port waterfront. The town going about its laid back business all around us. 

It has been a two stage journey to reach here.

At seventeen hundred, on Monday, Stargazer swept out of Cawsand Bay. Quickly sinking the land, Rame Head, Yealm Head, Start Point, to a smudge on the horizon. The mighty headlands sandwiched between a steely sea, flecked with prancing white horses, and a stern, battleship grey, sky.

Twenty to twenty five knots of north west wind are at our back. Stargazer is running wing on wing. Sheeting the jib, using the spinnaker sheets, lead 'outside everything,' to the stern quarter. For a sweeter set, than we achieved on passage from Helford to Cawsand. 

We run that way through the night. A half moon lighs Stargazer's boiling bow wave, as we surf and surge our way over a building sea. Until it sets at midnight. The clouds part, to reveal a dense snowstorm of stars, swirling above us, as we roll to the rhythm of the sea. Their collective glow is bright enough to reveal the flypast, of a lone passing Dolphin. It makes three large splashy jumps, as it skips by. Its white underside visible. Its black back lost in the darkness. Leaving us, forging through the night, accompanied only by the phosphorescence of our quarter wake.

We make landfall off the Les Hanois reef, on the south west tip of Guernsey, at zero nine thirty on Tuesday. Shaking the reefs out of the main, in the predawn twilight at zero four thirty. Gybing over, as we leave the steady flow of ships, steaming hard between the Ushant and Casquets Traffic Separation Schemes (TSS). Riding the fast flowing Channel Island tide south. The black dorsal fins, of porpoises, cleave the waves to either side. Their torpedo bodies silhouetted, through the clear green water, as they dive beneath Stargazer's keel.

Stargazer hardens up, onto a broad reach, making seven knots over the ground. The tide carrying us anti-clockwise around the island. East, along the craggy southern shore. With the change of course, the helm steadies, enough for me to engage the autopilot . I drop below to heat a tin of rice pudding and a pot of coffee, for breakfast.

We are off the St Peter Port harbour breakwater, by thirteen hundred. After reaching fast, up the Little Russel, in twenty five to twenty eight knots of breeze. Jib furled, full main. Allowing me to rig lines and fenders, as we go (no jib clears the fore and side decks). 

Stargazer is flying her yellow ( “ I request clearance”) flag, as we pass beneath the battlements of Castle Cornet, guardian of the port approaches. A harbour dory races out to meet us.

We are ushered onto the outer harbour pontoons. Which are currently a quarantine area, for boats arriving from outside the bailiwick. A marquee is set up on the quayside above, as a clearance centre. The formalities turn out to be remarkably informal; and purely digital. Sight of my Tracker form, via my phone screen, is all that is required. A barcode is produced, the phone automatically scans it, we are cleared into the Bailiwick of Guernsey.

We make our leisurely entrance, to the inner harbour, when the cill opens on Wednesday lunchtime. Seduced, on Tuesday afternoon, by falling into delightful conversation with a French family, out of Morlaix; and the prospect of a hot shower (my first in sixty four days) an M&S Food Hall pizza (there is one on the harbourfront) and, most of all, sleep. Therefore spending Tuesday night in the outer harbour.

A dory-man, ever present, jocular and attentive in St Peter Port harbour, guides Stargazer to her berth. "Wish I could give you a discount for wearing that jumper!" he quips. 

I am wearing my trusty sailing jumper. A venerable navy blue (mostly) Guernsey sweater.

"Not if you could see it up close," I call back "Its twenty years old, there's more darning wool in it, than original. Might treat myself to a new one, while I'm here!"

An English Summer 72

 

Moosk, the gaff yawl, born at the watershed between the eras of sail and steam, wins her anchor. Stray gusts, of the blustery north west wind, spill down the high cliffs to fill her sails.

The local boats, escaping the working week, for a weekend at anchor, have returned home.

Leaving Cawsand Bay to a handful of pelagics, out for the summer; and the paddlers from the village. Allowing Stargazer the space to re-anchor, closer beneath the cliffs, in our favoured spot, as the wind veered on Sunday evening.

Moosk gybes sweetly, sets her staysail and puts to sea. Stargazer follows suit, bound for Guernsey.