Wednesday 30th June
After James and Laura had retired to their bunk
I found I was strangely wakeful and restless. I took a walk
along the river bank in the hope of wearing myself out, to no
avail. I turned in at 23:00 in the hope that an attitude of
repose would encourage a restful interval of sleep. A book called
"The Norfolk Broads" written by William Dutt around
the turn of last century had waxed lyrical on the subject of
the Norfolk Night, and I have to agree with him that it certainly
has a charm all it's own, though somewhat different a century
later. However, overhead there still shone the eons-old moon
and strange sounds dopplered past the boat as night fowl went
about their noisy business. A bat had been one of the last things
I had seen before entering the forepeak, and when I rose again
around 4am, I watched for some time his aerial acrobatics. In
the grey pre-dawn light I watched a greebe feeding it's offspring,
thus explaining the curious beeps that had entertained my wakeful
night. Now that I wished to be awake to enjoy this magical dawn
time, I was overtaken by the wings of sleep and dozed fitfully
until 8am.
The crew emerged almost as tired as I, and together we trudged
off the staithe to the local stores through unpleasant weather
of wind and fitful rain. We motored out of Thurne Dyke into
a fresh wind, which contrived always to blow from bang on
the nose. We had not raised sail in the dyke as we were on
the lee shore, and once in the main channel the wind was too
strong to trust our feeble single rond anchor; even had we
succeeded in finding a suitable section of bank. Under bare
poles the engine struggled onwards, stopping almost dead in
the stronger gusts, eventually reaching Fleet Dyke around
mid-day. The map showed safe moorings apparently continuously
from the mouth of the Dyke to South Walsham Broad at it's
end. I hoped to land at the mouth of the dyke, raise reefed
sail, and sail on, but as we drove further down the dyke,
it became clear that this plan simply was not an option. We
finally moored at the mouth of South Walsham Dyke and ate
lunch and decided to wait out the tide and weather, expecting
it to ease in the afternoon. I walked into South Walsham,
an interesting walk through tree-roofed lanes and along a
path which ran arrow-straight through a corn field over which
hung enormous blue dragonflies engaged in their lethal pursuit
of bothersome insects. In the churchyard appeared to stand
two churches, both over the fallen stones of an older foundation,
the whole having achieved mention in Dutt's tome. A lapsed
Anglican, I enjoyed a few moment's meditation amidst the fragrant
herb garden soaking in the hazy sun before returning, feeling
the day waning and Ranworth, my intended destination, still
far away.
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The
map shows all our journeys, Wednesday being green, Thursday
peach and Friday violet. I'm sure that William Dutt
would agree that although we didn't go far, we did experience
much of the essence of Broadland.
(click to enlarge) |
On returning to the boat, I struggled to inspire the crew
to action, and eventually made ready for sail and topped off
the fuel tank while they went for a short walk. We started
the engine as security, but intended a rather more seamanlike
exit. With all sail aloft, we stood warps in hand. At the
signal, I coiled the bow warp, and shoved the bow off. The
jib was backed as I sprinted back to the cockpit over the
cabin roof. With James at the tiller, the bow came round,
the jib was sheeted in properly, and a short tack was made
across the Dyke before spinning the boat round and running
off downwind. It took less time and effort than to write this
and went superbly. However, the wind blowing through the trees
was light and shifting giving James no end of headaches as
gybe followed gybe. One nasty gybe on the front of a sharp
gust ended with the dinghy clipping a moored yacht. Apologies
were hailed across the water, but did little to placate the
disgusted eye of the owner.
I took over before reaching the main channel, worried about
the wind and traffic to be expected. On exiting the dyke it
became clear very quickly that I had mucked up my tides. There
was still a strong ebb running, over which it was difficult
to make headway despite the still fresh wind. We tacked to
and fro making a boat length or less depending on how the
wind had shifted between tacks, and what traffic we had to
avoid. Most of the drivers of the enormous stinkpotters were,
to their credit, very understanding of my self-inflicted predicament,
giving plenty of room and patience and smiling indulgently
at our hasty thanks. We hung on, praying for the change of
the tide, but as the tide weakened so did the wind. By dead
water we had passed Ant mouth, perhaps four hundred yards
up river, and I was becoming frustrated with the wind as James
tried to keep things calm on board. A change of helmsman quickly
reversed the situation until James agreed that the only way
we were going to reach our destination by nightfall was with
the assistance of the engine.
Under the engine we quickly gained a little more purpose
to our movements, although only a little more actual progress.
As the sun began it's decline, it cast a golden light over
the reeds quietening from their daytime whispering, and over
the sails as they were taken in. One foot on the tiller, arm
hooked over the boom, I surveyed the landscape and map, hastily
calculating how soon we might be tied up. Between two glances
a surprising change had taken place on the bow. Where before
I had a tall, blonde bowsprit I now had a pair of legs and
a loud bang. I was gripped by a terrible fear of what might
have happened, miles from anywhere, in a slow moving boat
with a good friend having just fallen head-first through the
forehatch. It was a long time before, much to my relief, my
shouts achieved a response. I called Laura on deck and it
wasn't long before James had emerged again laughing, unharmed
except for a hurt foot but having given all of us a terrible
shock. From that moment on the forehatch was replaced with
great care.
We entered Ranworth Dam at 17.45, and had tied up at the
staithe by 18.00, taking the last available spot. We were
guided to our mooring (hidden at the back, tucked in a corner)
by a friendly stinkpotter. We had a pleasent carbonara with
tuna and pasta for Dinner, James retiring to his bunk immediately
afterwards. Abandoning Laura I took the dinghy out. The log
reads: "Very pleasant sailing small boat again. Can sail
on beam-ends with an easy conscience. Poor sail shape and
set (may need to adjust boom arrangement) made up for by enjoyably
sail." I thrashed the boat around the small Malthouse
broad as fast as I could get an 8 foot tub with a heavy steel
centreboard to go. The old adage that the amount of fun had
in a boat is inversely proportional to it's size was proved
true. Regrettably, with a good wind blowing and a large wake
curling from the forefoot I changed course back to the staithe
to rig the awnings and do the washing up. When I returned
to the water, the wind was failing with only an occasional
fresh gust stirring the water. "Pleasurably challenging.
Able to sail very close to wildlife without disturbing."
I discovered a tiny drain on the far side of the broad and
sailed the boat in. The bush covered headlands cut off the
wind and I paddled a little way in, disturbing something large
and shy on the bank. I headed back out and resumed sailing
in time to see two stink potters come in and commence racing
around the broad looking for a suitable mooring for the night.
Eventually they moored in front of us, blocking us. However,
in the gathering gloom of dusk I managed to sneak the dinghy
in before the final hulk slotted into position barricading
our exit. A pub trip was mooted and warmly agreed upon. On
return the mooring ropes and awnings were adjusted before
turing in at 11:50. The final log comment reads "Bar.
29.5. Adjacent stink potters kicking up almighty row. Hope
for better sleep."
Thursday 1st July
"8:00. Very good night's sleep. Barometer
still on 29.5. Wind unchanged. Showers threatened later."
We were all slow getting going that morning, despite a scrambled
egg on toast breakfast. I felt very dry and my nose, which had
been threatening to revolt for the past two days now began to
seriously bother me. The water was topped off, before a perambulation
was made through Ranworth Nature Reserve. This was a rewarding
trip as it brought home some realities as to the fragile nature
of the broads environment and the effect we visitors were having
on it. I also had not realised how impermanent the broads were
in terms of the natural environment. Within twenty years open
water could become scrubland if the right conditions were met.
A steersman's eye view of the landscape.
It's moods
would ebb and flow almost with the changing times,
being both hostile, bleak and grey and warmly
endearing within the space of a few short hours.
(click to enlarge)
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We left the staithe at 14:15 and anchored in the
open water. The mainsheet blocks were up to their usual tricks,
and we began sailing around the mooring rather than lying comfortably
to it as we raised sail. Despite the difficulties we were under
sail again and drifting lazily through Ranworth Dam to the open
river. We were bothered by occasional gusts, but for the most
part the boat trickled along barely making a wake. Once in the
open river we commenced a glorious down-wind romp. James made
an excellent job of the difficult course requiring a gybe on
almost every corner in a pleasant breeze. We estimated from
comparing our speed to the motorboats that we must have been
getting near a speed of six miles per hour on some reaches.
This was truly enjoyable sailing with a bright sun beating down,
the miles that had been so hard-won so few hours ago reeling
effortlessly under our keel as we swept through the wide marsh-lands.
We rounded Thurne mouth and instantly lost speed
as the wind swung closer on the bow and the tide started flowing
against rather than with us. After two unpleasent gybes off
the mouth of Womack Water, I planned an adventurous landing
with the wind on the beam. We very nearly overshot the mooring
as I hadn't explained to the crew as fully as I should have
done what I wanted. Still, the only damage was to my pride and
crew relations. The cruiser ahead of us gave me a disapproving
look, but forbore from obvious comment. With the sails dropped
we motored on to Womack Staithe performing an interesting reverse
parking manoeuver before fussing for five minutes over our precise
mooring position. James and Laura disappeared into Ludham for
food while I tidied round on deck before diving head first into
the cabin as a ferocious shower soaked the boat. I had considered
getting wet and putting the awning up, but as it leaked horrendously
anyway, I decided discretion was the better part of valour.
While James and Laura were gone I scribbled my
name and email address on the back of a business card I had
from my band and dug a fiver out of my slightly damp wallet.
I had come to the conclusion that my sleepless night had been
due at least partly to the young lady at the chandlery, and
if I was honest with myself, the decision to overnight in Ludham
had not been an entirely cold blooded decision. James and Laura
arrived back before I plucked up my courage and before I had
fully secreted the evidence of my intentions. I was unceremoniously
kicked out and told not to come back until I'd spoken to her.
I groomed myself as well as possible given so many days in a
boat without a shower and blustered my way embarrassedly into
the office. "She is extremely attractive when slightly
embarrassed... Have threatened to return anyway. We shall see
what happens."
Having made as dignified an exit as a bright red
face would allow, the evening stretched forward with nothing
to do but see if the fish were biting. The awnings were rigged
and I retired to a nearby bench to nominally read a book, while
paying far more attention to the Chandlery door. After a very
palatable chilli con carne (with extra chilli, James' theory
being that hot food helped to get rid of colds), I returned
to my bench, slowly accumulating layers of clothing as low flying
jets shot into the cloud strewn sunset and the cold began to
come down. The fish were biting, our next door neighbour losing
two fly-casts in our rigging, but the women weren't. At 22:00,
after another pleasant lemon tea, and with the last notes of
the log recorded I turned in, out of sorts with women.
Friday 2nd July
As so often happens, it is only at the very end
of a holiday that one really settles into one's surroundings.
After another excellent night's sleep I was up at 8:30, although
the crew were again slow getting going. While getting the awnings
down, the boat threw up another short coming. The shackle which
doubled for the forward awning and the foot of the jib stuck.
We all had a go at it, but had to admit to defeat and beg a
pair of pliers at the chandlery, which did at least give the
bonus of meeting the Chandler's daughter again. It seemed incredible
to send out boats that lacked even the most rudimentary of tool
kits. Something as simple as a stuck shackle could happen at
any time, and in an out-of-the-way creek could be a real nightmare.
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Exquisite craft like this one caught
in Friday's calm were a constant pleasure.
(click to enlarge)
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With barely a ripple on the surface of the water,
we left Womack Water. I was feeling really miserable by this
time (like all men, the merest cold takes on the severity of
a mortal sickness if there's any chance of some sympathy!),
and James and Laura still weren't sleeping, so a communal and
not terribly difficult decision was made to have a gentle motor
in the flat calm back through Potter Heigham up to Martham.
We calculated that we could be home by 9pm, and as we had to
be out of the boat at 9am the following morning anyway, we didn't
see that we lost much by curtailing the holiday. Laura stayed
in bed as we nosed our way lazily upstream through a hazy sunshine,
with barely another boat disturbing the morning peace. It was
pleasant to lounge around on deck swabbing mud from the decks
where the anchor had come aboard, tidying the ropes around the
mast, taking a last few photos.
"Wind rising approaching Potter. Moored and
dropped mast without incident. Passed through bridges, moored
and raised mast. Feel bloody awful." So awful indeed that
my appetite which outside rowing circles is legendary, had abandoned
me. I struggled through beans on toast on the bank and thought
of warm showers, copious hot chocolate and comfortable beds.
Onwards and upwards we sped with a gentle chugging,
a light exhaust following our every move until at last we hove
in sight of Martham's huddled bankside form. James executed
a neat turn to land upwind, but the manoeuver ended in rather
botched fashion as a Martham's employee gave awful instructions
as to how he wanted us to moor. Still, with rather less elegance
than we had hoped for, we arrived back, moored to the end of
the cruiser fleet and started to unpack the boat.
The speed with which the boat was unpacked was
astounding, but I already knew that James and Laura had taken
less well to the boating lark than I had, and we were on the
road at 14:30. We had a strange weather on the run home. Blinding
sunlight alternated with some of the worst showers I have ever
had the misfortune to drive through, massive drops near-obliterating
the road despite the best efforts of the South Korean wiper
motors, and in many ways adequately reflecting my own moods
about the holiday. I had most certainly bitten off more than
I was capable of. Not having sailed a boat for two years, then
jumping into a heavy 30 footer on tiny rivers was one hell of
a baptism of fire. My natural over-caution and apprehension
had been adequately assisted by the poor maintenance of the
boat. However, we had some glorious sails, and saw places that
were beautiful and wild in a raw way which is difficult to find
on such an over-populated island. By the time I got home at
21:00 I knew that I would be going back. Maybe not with Marthams,
but I'd be going back.
Back in potter again on the way home, without
even the energy to moor the dinghy properly!
(click to enlarge)
And the chandler's daughter? Two days after I
got home, an email appeared from Deena thanking me for the drink
and apologising for having been so suprised. Next time I'm down
there I guess I'll have to buy the drink for her...
