A book is written

It's been a long time. I decided to keep a low profile, quit rabbiting on about my small life details and concentrate on writing the book. It's done! I've had it, or a hundred pages appraised by an editorial consultant; taken their advice and re-written it, deleting characters, adding others, cleaning up the dialogue and giving the whole thing more depth. A virtual and literal spring clean, which has taken a year, bearing in mind keeping the cutter afloat ( The Promise needs constant loving attention) and keeping body and soul together physically and financially.

So, for those of you who's followed my tales: the moorings in Brittany, living in France on an old boat, the collision, Tom Colt (who sends regards, as I hear from him occasionally) and the crew, I thank your patience and can say that the book, Carmelyn is going of last edit then will be available on line. I'm also going to produce a small run, a couple of hundred say, for the real enthusiasts who like to snuggle up with a real book. The real book version is also a chance to team up with an old friend, illustrator, artist and designer, Ian Heard. He wants to produce an illustrated novel for adults. So why not? These are in the early stages, pencils only but he has the feel of the story and I thinks it's  exciting. The cover is going to take a little more thought as even ebooks need a cover design. Seems that even Kindle readers like covers proving it's still a remarkably traditional market and readers are traditional too.

Interested then? Carmelyn will be available as soon as we're editorially dusted. I think she's in France at the moment but not the same part as me and it's a big place. I'll let you have some sneak previews here and fill a few studies that didn't make the finished tale. It'll give you a flavour and me a chance to air my prose.

What's it about? Categorically speaking it's a Historical/adventure/romance set in Cornwall and Brittany in 1655. There's been civil war in England and France, there's unrest and no-one is quite what they seem...

Can't wait.

Falmouth Working Boat For Sale

Here's some news I hadn't seen coming: my old shipmate; Ian Heard, the painter and sometimes writer, is selling his boat. He isn't giving up ("swallowing the anchor" they used to say) but is downsizing to sail his 16ft mahogany clinker dinghy, 'Jenny'.  She's undergone an extensive restoration at Marcus Lewis' yard in Fowey.

Sadie Dalton is a 23ft Falmouth Working Boat, built by his father, the late and lamented, Terry Heard, and has been in the family since her launch in 1980. She's a fibre glass hull but deck, spars, coachroof, everything else is wood. I've sailed this boat - so has Sir Robin Knox Johnson - and I can testify she's a great sail, lively, responsive but steady as a 5 toner would be. I've sailed her in big seas where the end of the bowsprit is in the back of the wave in front, and sat on her round bilges, high and dry on sneaky mudbanks. None of these adventures ever giving cause for alarm. I'll let Ian (aka 'Hargreaves') tell his story…

Sadie Dalton, our 23ft Falmouth Working Boat is for sale. My father built her in 1980 and she’s been in the family ever since. Much loved and enjoyed over the years, we’ve decided she deserves a new, active and somewhat fitter young crew. She was built as an open working boat though primarily for racing and still carries a racing rig (around 600sq ft) In 2000 we converted her to a pocket cruiser with cabin, bunks etc and have sailed locally as time and work permitted. She’s a great boat for classic pleasure sailing and exciting racing. She’s well balanced and will honestly sail herself with the sheets let go a little. She’s still basically an engineless gaff cutter but does sport a fairly new 9hp outboard. (short spec below)

If you’ve seen David Dimbleby’d Rocket on BBC TV recently, and want a classic cruiser with pedigree and potential; this is your boat.

Currently laid up at the Multihull Centre, Millbrook, Cornwall. Offers in the region of £14000

For more information contact:
Ian Heard
01822 617337
studio@heardsdesign.com

Falmouth Working Boat, “Sadie Dalton”

23ft falmouth working boat, built in 1980 by Terry Heard for his own use and owned by the family since. Converted for short cruises in 2000, now with 3 berth cabin (including extending double bunk) Heads, galley and chart area. Fore peak sail storage. Original racing rig: mains’l, stays’y, 3 x jibs and tops’l. Sail cover and boom tent. New bowsprit, new gaff (2013). New rudder 2010. New standing rigging (2 years), running rigging all replaced in past 5-6 years. New 28lb CQR. Engine: Tohatsu 9.8 outboard. Currently on River Tamar.

If you're looking for a good looking, handy classic, Sadie Dalton is a beauty.  Did I say; she's named after the designer Percy Dalton's youngest and she launched her too. If I was in the market for pocket cruiser, it'd be her, but I ain't. You'll know I have a somewhat larger vessel in France and she takes all me time. Now the Jenny, there's a boat I'd steal for.  Best of luck with the sale, Hargreaves. Happy days, fondly remembered and many more to come. See you in the summer.

Cutters ain't Luggers

Just been down to Penzance; spent a pleasant hour at the Penlee House Gallery. Exhibition of donated works by Newlyn school and others. Great except Cutters ain't Luggers! Why do curators make up titles to paintings that are just wrong. We used to be a great sailing nation where everyone knew what was what. 

The painting in question was a small study of a cutter with mains'l brailed up, nodding quietly at anchor off a shadowy town by Walter Langley. It was a small piece, probably never intended to exhibition but it was called "lugger at anchor" when the vessel was patently a cutter. It probably doesn't matter but one day all these lovely boats will just be 'boats'. There was a lovely Tuke watercolour referring to a 'boat' when it was more accurately a tops'l schooner. Boat usually mean small rowing craft, often towed behind a bigger one; i.e. the ship's boat. Yachts often refer to a 'tender'. I reckon so called because they are, tender that is. flighty, light weight and apt to tip over if you shift your balance. They are used to tend to a larger craft, move supplies and personnel between  ships. In the Nelsonic navy; a ship (one that is ship rigged - three masted, square sailed) often had a number of small boats on board: a launch, a jolly boat, a long boat, for example. Even a cutter which was then a rowing and sailing boat. 'Jolly' probably derives from the Dutch or Swedish 'joule' as does yawl. It may come from the French Jolie meaning pretty, like Jolie Brise and jolie rouge, or jolly roger.
Who knows but they have a history in which the very words conjure up images from a romantic and dashing past. 

The illustrated novel - laying the creative keel

Writing a novel; relatively easy. As someone said; let the characters write it themselves. Editing the second draft; enjoyable and, once read by an expert, pretty rewarding. Third and forth re-writes means it's getting serious. I also started to think about production and tentatively approached some agents after some encouragement from two publishers I know. It's not their kind of book I hasten to say. I next began to have thoughts on illustrated novels for grown-ups, and have had a lot of encouragement from writers, would-be writers and all sorts. Dickens was illustrated, Sherlock Holmes, Mervyn Peake - his own and brilliantly - there are loads in the past but not, for some reason, today.

I sent my m.s to an editorial consultant and to some likely agents. The editors were helpful and kind; the Agent approach was less than successful. A little interest but mainly a flat "no'. Some return a polite standard refusal, many don't reply at all. Times are hard, for everyone, especially for an unknown novelist and his first book. Publishers are looking to spend their financial resources on dead certs not hopeless outsiders. Their tried and tested best sellers are being pinched. Of course, the world is full of ambitious writers and does the World need another one? No, not really but why do we paint, compose, climb mountains? Because we do; "because it's there".

Then I thought; hang on. What about the great provider, whose whole remit is access for all: the Internet. Why not go the ebook route? It's accessible, cheap if not free to do and there have been some notable successes. Plus the availability of POD - Print on Demand - short run, digital printing.

I admit, I have a lot to learn; so that's why I'm here, to talk to illustrators and designers about the possibility of becoming an ebook writer/producer. This used to be called vanity publishing when I was a lad; now it's free marketeering, digital entrepreneurialism and complete creative control.

I've been in Blighty for a couple of weeks now, seeing old friends, catching up, clearing up, trying to keep warm in this awful cold. Glad not to be on the boat, or in the shed in France for that matter. However, the studio at Heard's Design is also a little parky until they fire up the boiler. He says that when they switch on another electric heater, their 'router' gets knocked out - whatever the hell that means. Seems to be a fact but he works in mittens and sea boots. It's like old times.

A conversation and the start of a book

You'll know, for a couple of years or more, I've been working on a book. Why? I met a man at the London Boat Show some time back, a novelist of repute who was the mate of a mate of mine. I happened upon them both and struck up a conversation. Eventually I got around to asking; how come you've written so many books? He'd done a couple of dozen and counting, and one I'd read. He answered that he was never completely happy and liked to start another straight off. When I asked, HOW do you write a whole novel,  he said: just start, it's easy. Just start at the beginning and let them do the talking. I wandered off to the Guinness stand, as you do, to think about it. Later on the train to wherever, oblivious of the talk of yachts and sport, as I know a little of one but nothing of the other, I began to form a plot. What did I know about? I'm not interested in Sci-fi, horror, fantasy, detectives or who-dun-its, aga-sagas or erotica, contemporary urban angst, sloppy romance or sentimental soul searching. I avoid celebrity garbage, cooks, gossip, tabloids and TV altogether. What do I read apart from pilot books and real-life adventure? Not much but I like Ian Fleming and Robert Louis Stevenson and Conrad and one or two current authors; CJ Sansom and Iain Pears. All right, and Cornwell and O'Brian naturally. So there; action, adventure, espionage, history, and a bit of sailing. By the time I got to bed I'd got the whole thing laid out. All I needed to do was write the thing. That was what, five, six years ago? Much has happened but I have all but finished book one. Being of an ambitious nature of course, I've started book two and can see it being a trilogy - at least. What I might have done is create a character, without setting out to do so, who could run in a literary sense. A world or part of a world, set some time ago, which covers war, international and personal intrigue, love, hate, tragedy and triumph. Have I got you interested? Do you want to know more?

Talk to you again soon...

Home sweet home

It's been very cold on the boat. I have a woodburner and an Eberspacher diesel heater but it's too clammy for me right now. Since I live half on and half off The Promise, I've decided to take a trip back to Plymouth town, catch up with a few old mates, see my designer chappie and warm up. It's not as bad here as further east but winters and me aren't best mates. I'm a sunny sort, comes from my ancient Gascon genes I'm told but who knows; perhaps it's age and desire for comfort. Early in the refit I found myself a "room" in a converted ship container. Fine in the summer, cool, a tad noisy in the rain but the previous tenant had made quite a nice home in it, and for one room, albeit made of alloy and steel, cosy. As the boat dried out, and once amenities had been restored, ie the galley fired into life, existence took on some semblance of normality, or what passes for it living in a tin can at the back of a shipyard somewhere in France.

Now, two years in, replanked, new laminated floors, hanging knees and breast hooks, refastened and caulked, The Promise is more like her old self. Bearing in mind she'd been rammed, sunk and towed slowly as a submersible filled with air bags to somewhere she didn't know. I'm waiting for spring before the paint goes on anywhere as I'd taken the time to have every inch scraped off and scrutineered. Any suspect soft spot was exposed, dug out, refilled or replaced. We hammer tested the whole hull and checked hull moisture and density but found her old oak fine and hard; this due to over half a century in salt water. Right now she's as bare as a baby's bum and actually pretty smart in her natural wood finish. Pretty but impractical; The Promise will be once again primed with Blake's best universal aluminium primer and coated over and over till we get to a decent top coat which may be something other than black. Don't get me wrong; I'm not going soft and I haven't seen any lifestyle decorating programs on the telly, but I'm allowed to change and might paint her... grey!

Thoughts from abroad - Winter 1963

The freezing temperatures before Christmas 1962 lasted until March. England shivered; we went tobogganing. The school was predictably shut but those of us that lived beyond the village made the most of being cut off. The steep fields behind the road were designed for slalom and anything which presented little resistance was commandeered for sledging; tin trays; corrugated roofing; and for the alpinists, custom made toboggans of tarry timber planed smooth in my father's workshop. The creek froze; not like the Thames, but enough to make an expedition to the other side a real proposition. Like Scott and Shackleton in woollen mittens and pom-pom hats, we set out in a small plywood dinghy and rowed this way and that, cracking and forcing the fragile frost sheet. I was nine years old; my cousin not much older but we were happy and brave as boys were, that lived and played on the water.

Cornwall was beginning to be touched by the sixties. Beatle-mania was growing and for those with TV, the BBC News, following the Big Freeze, was about the Profumo affair; whoever he was. The news in our road was the imminent move to the old farm at Tregarth. My father had plans for a boat yard, one bigger than the small beach where we lived. Apart from dinghies, he had built his first big boat in the garage next to the house, launching her down the road on someone else's slipway. The opportunity for more space came up and through that winter my Dad steadily renovated the small cob cottage: pulling down walls that separated the dark rooms, replacing the box stairways with open steps and adding extra beams to the precarious ceilings. At six foot five; he could only ever stand between the beams and was forever cracking his head on the low doorways.

The cluster of cow sheds with its orchard and marshes was a new world. The ground ran upwards to a bank in front of the cottage which protected the farm yard from spring tides, especially if driven by strong easterlies. Although the road ended on the beach, a well worn track ran on, past the building, hugging the edge of the orchard wall to a spring called crow well. Salt marshes extended out from the well but its waters were always sweet and fresh. We were warned NOT to dirty the waters for the family who lived in the house boat and whose only source of water it was. The orchard was our own kingdom, my brother and I, a place of camps and castles. Old boat hulls were left there to fall apart, an ancient car with leather seats spewing hemp rusted there, and a jungle of pittosporum grew thickly before being cut and bagged for market. Apples and sloes, hawthorn and dog rose gave fruit and the streams were full of elvers and tiny crabs. When the tide crept over the course grasses I leaned to swim and sail in a place known simply as the creek.

S.R. Treliven 2013

Time to re-launch

About two years ago, my pilot cutter, The Promise, was rammed and almost sunk by a Spanish Trawler about ten miles off the coat of southern Brittany, while on passage to the Morbihan. There were four of us on board: my permanent crew of two and American traveller, Thomas Edson Colt. We were lucky. They came out of a fog bank and we were in the way, motoring gently south with fishing lines out and lazing on the warm deck. The Promise took a broadsides which stove in her starboard fore quarter, splitting her old oak topsides and fracturing timbers that were growing when Nelson was at Trafalgar. I thought we'd had it and seeing my sextant under water, ordered abandon ship. We launched the life raft onto a rolling swell and I watched as my compliment swam to the orange shell and wriggled like seals into the bucking interior. I punched the epirb and joined them, thrashing across the open water as my home for three years disappeared behind me.

But she didn't. Disappear that is. She held her own; somehow The Promise didn't sink. She wallowed well down but stopped short of that awful plunge that a sailor dreads. Two other trawlers were on the scene by now and with much shouting and gesturing, The Promise was taken in tow and was eventually beached somewhere on the Scorf at Lorient. We were picked up, not by our Spanish assailant but by a Breton who typically waved any idea of disaster aside, supplied strong drink to revive, fish stew and warm clothes.

I'll slowly recount the next two years over the coming months but suffice to say; a great deal of channel hopping ensued, I ended up living in a first floor container conversion in the yard appointed to restore my ship. I was on the spot, more or less, working alongside the men who would rebuild The Promise.

When I wasn't pestering them, I was able to take up my writing once more. You may recall, one of the reasons I was in Brittany in the first place, was to research a novel. Sounds pretentious I know but my book is partly set there and involves some cross channel adventuring in the 17th century. I was there to retrace the route of my characters, gain valuable experience of conditions, history and undertake a perilous journey in a small boat.

That's my story so far and that's the story I will tell; so if your sitting comfortably...?

Been a long time, Shipmates

Indeed it has; almost a year. I apologise profusely for the silence, my friends but we had a spot of bother. Where was Treliven? Where indeed. Last time I wrote I'd met an American canoeist, Thomas Edson Colt, and with my two other crew, we were last in a Bar in La Foret planning a trip down to the Morbihan. That great gulf, or sunken land of ancient stones and reefs, if'n you prefer. Set off we did but only a couple of days out, The Promise, our pilot cutter, was rammed and holed by a huge steel trawler. He'd come out of the smoke charging on his way back to France with a hold full of the silver darlin's and we were in the way. You'd think a big'n like us would leave a dent on his radar but Monsieurs head was occupied by other things and the Universe blinked and we were sunk. Well, almost. The Promise got clobbered for'ard of mid-ships and at an angle. The Bay of Biscay cascaded through her; more and more of the green stuff till I thought we were done for. I had time to activate the epirb, grab the panic box and launch the life raft but there ain't much time when your world is sinking beneath your feet.  The Promise held enough air in her sleek body and though she wallowed like a pig; down to her covering boards just about, somehow, somehow she floated. We four hurtled over the side and found the life raft. Four, I thought, thank Neptune for that, we're all sound. Pale, saturated and shakey like but sound. I'll tell 'ee more later; Kettles boiling in the new galley.

A passage is planned

We'd been thinking about a trip further south and discussed whether Tom Colt might join the crew. He'd been pottering about the estuary between the two rivers; his red sails making a pretty picture as he tacked this way and that, between buoys and fishing boats. We thought he'd fit in; he had our take on life, or sort of, and he was an experienced chap on many levels. He been seen crewing with a local lad on his lugger as he tended pots and shown himself to be an able hand on the traditional rig. I'd been cautious as to his ability and even his story at first but Colt soon put all doubts to rest as we watched him handle his tiny boat expertly among the yachts and tenders. one evening we caught up with him in a bar.
'Do you fancy the Morbihan?' I inquired eventually. 'Vannes is nice and an extra pair of hands might be useful backing headsails.'
'I hear its a challenge, The Morb', he smiled. 'But I ain't going far this week. I'd say why not?'
'Tides are good,' I added. 'Past the springs, so not too much race through the entrance.'
'And less in the way of eddies and back currents. Even for a boat like The Promise,' he nodded. 'There's places I'd like to see down there. Old places; prehistoric, made of stone by a forgotten people,' he sipped his frothy Blonde and sighed. 'Nice beer.'
For an American, he seemed to have a scholarly interest in early European culture. I asked him, why so interested?
'Oh, I guess that's it, an interest. I did prehistory at UW Seattle. Native American and pre Columbian, then Europe and the Middle East. Love it. Love to handle a spear point someone made four thousand years ago. Touching earth, man.'
'Did you see much in Iraq?' I eyed him over the edge of my glass.
'You don't get to do much archaeology from the gun sights of an Apache. I've seen more stuff destroyed than you'll ever see in a museum. Bastards.'
'Who's that?'
He snorted cynically, 'All of 'em,' He sauntered out to a table on the quay.
I watched him slump into a seat and puff his cheeks. Best not go there then, I reasoned. Let the bugger be. I don't care where he's been or what he's seen; I liked him and thought we'd all get on. 'So how about a run then, Are you on?'
'Hell, yeah,' he half turned, squinting in the evening sun. 'You just say, Cap't. Give me the nod,' He raised his glass and we joined him in another round or three while the sun set the river ablaze in bronze and the swallows entertained us by skimming across the ebb tide to catch tiny flying things, invisible to our eyes and lost in the haze that softly deepened in shades of indigo against the wooded distant shore.

Colt's plan

Over fish stew and the remains of this morning's bread, Tom Colt continued his tale. He'd cruised Guernsey, Sark and Jersey in good weather before crossing to mainland Europe via the Minkies, making landfall near Ille Brehat, west of Paimpol. The coast of Brittany is notorious along that reach; peppered with lighthouses, towers and buoys, and justly so. The rocky edge of France will rip your keel off soon as look at you. I know a British naval officer who grounded his yacht when there was water on the chart and he drives warships! This casual American actually went to Les Minquiers for fun. He'd made the most of the westerlies and sailed back along the coast, heading for St Malo and the Rance there by entering the cross-Brittany canal system; Dinan; Rennes; down the Villaine to Redon but there turning right to hit the atlantic at Lorient down the river Blavet. The Scorf estuary, where that river emerges, is a nice place to hang out; he'd sailed to Port Louis and the shallow waters to Riantec before having to adjust his itinerary.
'I'd planned to see the Morbihan but the winds weren't right, so it was up the coast to Concarneau, and here we are.'
'Some trip,' I said. 'You must have a lot of confidence in your boat?'
'Boats are wonderful things, aren't they? Folks have crossed the atlantic in boats smaller than Sacagawea. You have to do your homework; thats all.'
'So, where you off to? The Med?' It seemed to best option to me, August is getting on and he'd want somewhere cosy for the winter.
'I was thinking of hacking down to Nantes. Get back in the canals and head east. You can sail right across Europe; from side to side, y'know? I reckon be on the Rhine by Fall.'
'Now I know you're mad,' I laughed. The Rhine? Germany? I imagine you're used to the cold. Why not lay her up here? Like Vannes. Bloody nice port and lots of placed to potter for days out,' I suggested. 'I did that last year. Summer up the Odet, then a nice snug marina with great French coffee and croissants on every corner.'
'Someone said you'd have it sussed,' grinned Colt. 'Anyway, boat like this, you wouldn't know what was going on outside.'
'Don't believe it,' I reached for the bottle. 'My rigging fair rattles and hums up there. If you're after a quiet life, stay clear of boats - full stop.'
He smiled and held out his glass. 'Didn't you ever want to see the alps? Or some of them great European cities?'
'Not yet; no.'
'Ah, Cap'n Treliven, the beauty of Paris, the mystery of Berlin, the style of Milan and Turin. the galleries, the theatres. Don't you ever wonder?'
'What makes you think I haven't been? Paris? Been there plenty of times and done Italy on a Motor Bike. Right now I'm sailing around the edge and it looks fine to me.'
'Well, I'm planning to go right across the middle; to the Black Sea, Istanbul - Constantinople -  by way of every stream I can find.'
I thought for a moment. At least he had a plan. 'There's a lot of them rivers run uphill,' I suggested.
'Sure, but there's a network of canals that run west to east with some mighty interesting things along the way.'
I was beginning to see more than a cowboy adventurer in Tom Colt. I weighed him up. Fit, resourceful, educated probably. Overgrown college boy? He seemed a little old for that. Rich kid wasting time? Didn't think so. I said, 'How come, Tom. Why Europe? Why now, and why a canoe called Sacagawea?'
He undid the top buttons of his faded shirt and pulled back to collar to reveal a long, jagged scar that creased his skin like a dried up river bed. A line of vicious looking white staple marks ran across his right chest and carried on around the back. I frowned.
'Iraq. First time. After you get blown out of a jeep doin' sixty, you kinda take stock. Life is for living, Cap't and you're a long time dead,' He buttoned up and swigged his wine, slapping the glass decisively down on the fidded saloon table. 'I'll be going for now but I'll be seeing you again. You and your black boat.'
The crew let him slide of the settee and he courteously thanked her for supper. A moment later we shook hands and he clambered over the gunwales into his canoe; with a salute he was gone. I stood in the cockpit, finishing off the bottle and listening to his whistling fading away in the darkness. Thomas Edson Colt. Interesting.

The Canoeist's crossing

We sat in Promise's cockpit supping English tea and yarning as the sun went down. My guest, Mr. Thomas Edson Colt, was an amiable and capable young dude. He'd been impressed by the journals of Rob Roy MacGregor and tales of canoe pioneers from his native shores as a lad; impressed enough to try several "boats" of his own, before settling on the bobbin that quietly nudged beneath my taffrail. She was not big, not for voyaging. Fine for a camping weekend but the sea? I'd say not, yet this confident smiling yank had bought her and fitted her out on the Thames, crossed the Channel and was decided on circumnavigating Europe by way of any lake, river, canal and ditch.
'How d'you get here?' I inquired, squinting at him through the Twinning's steam. I was more than slightly curious. I imagined the canoe came as deck cargo on a Brittany Ferry. Sailing to France in such a craft was a tall order, dangerous to put it mildly, though not impossible. If he had sailed, then by which route and in what weather?
'I took my time getting to Salcombe,' he started.
'Salcombe? Devon?'
'You know it? Great place. I don't know many folks in England but I knew some there, so I went a-calling on their hospitality while I got the charts and waited for the right spell of weather,' he smiled.
'I expect you had a wait then. April was good but May was a wash out and June not much better.'
'I needed good daylight too. My nav-lights ain't too high above the sea.'
I smiled at this understatement. The canoe yawl was about eighteen feet long with two stubby masts; one carrying the gaff, or gunter main; the other a springy mizzen set well astern and reefed to a bumpkin. She was almost all deck with a heart shaped cockpit. Pretty but tiny.
'So when did you go?'
Crack of dawn, as soon after the solstice as I could get. A bit of calm off Les Hanois, an hour or two dodging crap-pots but got clear across in daylight. Salcombe, St Peter Port, eighteen hours.'
'Good going,' I nodded. 'I bet she shifts, your boat.'
'Sacagawea. Yeah, she flies. A good beam reach and not too gusty mind, but she'll fly.
I laughed at his enthusiasm and sheer guts. 'So you hopped across, island to island.'
'Of course; How dumb do I look? No, don't say Capt'n,' he slurped his tea. 'It was a long passage, and not without risk but it's what we do, us adventurers, take risks. Life's too short.'
'Taking of short, where are you hanging your hammock tonight?' I was eyeing the canoe yawl. There was a berth inside but this friendly six footer was due a comfort break.
'Oh, I'll be fine,' he smiled. 'There's beach behind Cap Coz I've earmarked. I gotta bottle of wine; looks perfect.'
'Go get your bottle, Mr Colt,' I pushed open the hatch with my bare feet and nodded at the glow as the crew lit the brass lamp. 'Welcome aboard.'

The Canoeist

I heard a soft bump alongside a bit earlier on and stuck my head out of the hatch to see what had contacted. I saw a right hand set of white knuckles gripping the gunwale, as a rat's tail of old blue polypropylene flew through the air in my direction. The canoeist was making fast, unsteadily and at arms reach. His boat, an open fifteen footer with a lug sail, was rocking under his feet but agile as a monkey, he was up and over The Promise's side in a trice. He was nut brown and sinewy and grinning like a chad; he stuck out his hand and introduced himself simply as "Tom Colt."

'How d'you do Mr Colt,' I replied seriously.

'I saw your boat and couldn't resist,' he smiled. 'Real pretty.' His American accent rolled like the plains of Dakota.

I nodded. 'Kettle's on. Take a seat.'

So it was I came to meet Thomas Edson Colt. Canoeist, Mountaineer and man of the New World. Interesting.

Scrub between tides

I've just revamped the design side of me blog. In an idle moment you understand. A gig-rowing maid suggested that the reversed out of black was hard to read. Not so sure but there y'go; have a look. The picture is borrowed from painter and occasional crew, Ian Heard back in Blighty. It's a rough, he says but still managed to sell it. Be nice when it's done, I thought. He tells me he has a stack of half finished boards and canvases under his desk while his old boat moulders in some backwater. I've told him to bloody sort it out. Boats is for barnacles, not slugs and snails. He has got a new mooring for next year and I hope to see him afloat when I get back for a trip.

Meanwhile, the crew and I took The Promise down to the estuary of the Belon river a while ago, intending it as a spring board for deeper water but Port Manech is a tranquil, sheltered spot and there's miles of creeks to explore. The oysters are the best in Brittany and friends I have on the Odet, drive a sixty mile round trip for them. They are French I should say. More later when the kettle's boiled I have some nice tales of this place and other bits and bobs. Cheers.

A sonnet and the story

The Squall

The harbour village shimmered though far out

white horses had begun to race the bay.

In our small boat we eyed the clouds and spray

a second reef was needed beyond doubt

Crashing black rock and castle canons spout

dark, tall sea and a half gale holding sway

as fingers grip on mainsheet blown away

she bravely leaps in ocean chorus shout

Tack beneath Trefusis’ gloomy shore

one more for Penarrow point was wanted

and into Dockyard pool outran the squall

high tide calm we solemn heavens emplore

as the deep creek welcomed, wind deserted

we are ducks forlorn beneath the rains fall.

Treliven

After the long hot and dry spring weather the skies are now very unsettled. Weekend Yotties lurk about the Marina bars and cafes, sipping short and pungent coffees; foaming chocolat chaud, cognac and pastis, reminiscing about perfect cruises, long summers and broad reaches across sparkling seas. Dream on; thick, impassive nimbus sits at masthead height and wind is flukey, sometimes here, sometimes not.

Some time back, up another estuary and in another boat, I'd gone off for what looked like being a perfect day; to meet up with some old friends and light a driftwood fire to yarn around. All was indeed pretty good until the time came to part. All experienced sailors in a variety of small craft but one or two of us had a fair old trip back on the tide and the sky was looking serious. Ours was a sixteen foot, clinker open boat, a classic in today's parlance, built in the fifties, not fast but seaworthy with a gunter and a snatch of jib. I set off with my crew, hoping to ride the flood back to the moorings four or five miles upstream on the other side of the estuary. We had a cracking sail from the beach to the first real turning point; a crenelated headland with a clear view of the open sea and from which direction a sizable swell had started to run. Rather than head up and put in another reef, enjoying the rumbustuous sailing I decided to thrash on. The sea was all behind us and though it was going to be a tacking game, our destination was clear ahead. Wind over tide then; a little lumpy. We weren't going to make one reach as the wind was strengthening and backing but one or two extra turns weren't off the books and we bounced along splendidly, surfing from wave to wave and enjoying the ride. Our first tack was going to leave us short but as we luffed for the turn I saw to my horror, the inboard end of the main sheet almost disappearing through the last sheave of the outer block. I lurched across the crew and grabbed the escaping end but had no time nor sea room to effect any repair. In other words I just had to grin and bear it, hold on like a limpet and my right arm become the main sheet extension. The crew hadn't noticed at first, her eyes fixed seriously ahead she worked the jib like a Thames bargee. We turned again and roared on towards home. We were soon soaked by flying spray though we didn't ship any real water and our little ship showed her skirts and fairly danced over the curling tops. By the time we entered the outer moorings in the pool, the wind and sea were subsiding and protected by the lee of our second point, we loped into the creek mouth. My arm was aching now; four miles of tugging and twisting was exhausting and I was glad to stop, though not quite yet. As we approached the final reach, mooring in sight, the wind which had hurled us across the bay died completely and the black clouds down poured in stair-rods. We drifted the final hundred yards simply steering towards the pick up. As we passed one of the creekside houses on our approach, I saw that we had been watched by the interested owner through binoculars. As the crew leaned over the side for a sedate mooring, I saw the man raise a glass from his cosy window view point. I waved, feeling cold water run down the inside of my sleeve. I guess he'd been there.

The ship's boat

I don't know about you but we're having a tropical spell of sunshine hereabouts. Yesterday, after several days below The Promise's buttock and futtocks - scrubbing, scraping, tapping and finally, antifouling - I decided to take the punt for a sail. My little tender is equipped with mast and spars, rudder and centerboard and sails like a little dear. I had a quick look over and shoved off the marina slip at Fouesnant heading, as I thought, out to the sparkling sea. Not so straightforward as before I rounded Cap Coz, the little forestay went off like a gun, leaving the pocket handkerchief sized mains't to flop to one side and lose all effective drive. A swift inspection revealed that the tiny bronze stem head shackle had sheared and gone for a swim. Now, I always like to keep oars aboard, so quick as a knife shot them out through the rowlocks to haul for the shore. The tide and wind was setting me westwards though, the wrong, or least best direction. Go with it, Treliven, I thought and before long drifted with the tide up a shallow bay that began to look interesting. These drying inlets are a haven of wildlife and a Mecca for shell fish hunters at low tide. That wouldn't be for a while but though I touched once or twice, the flood eased me over mud banks and shoals to a land of grassy marshes and quiet meadows. At the head of the estuary was a tide mill; castle like and ancient in appearance but to all intents and purposes in working order. I'd seen others, Ploumanach, for one, but this looked in good nick; not the usual ruin. A lake was dammed up behind the retaining wall while shady woods stretched away on either side. A path that ran on top, disappearing east and west.

I stamped my grapnel into the turf; determined to go exploring on foot, having left the sea so far behind. All I needed was a yard of decent nylon to make a jury forestay lanyard, but knew there was a little dingy hire place at the Cap. The sun was shining, I had a few Euros in my pocket, and if deck shoes aren't the best for rambling, they'd surely get me to the nearest cafe for a Pastis - once I'd purloined a bit of string. I'd reckoned on an hour before the tide turned. Easy...

Pandora Inn reminiscence

I was sorry to hear about the fire at the famous Pandora Inn, at Restronguet near Mylor, this week. I spent many happy years there, working in a boatyard and learning what I could about the local craft and how to sail them. The Pandora was a favorite watering hole and one where I spent countless hours quaffing, yarning, shouting, sometimes thinking and often singing; competing with those great, untrained Cornish baritones that would put many an opera front-man to shame. I was also known to earn a crust playing guitar and entertaining the customers - whether they liked it or not.

One night, a Wednesday I remember, I'd done my bit and was invited back to a yacht for a carry on session after last orders. I packed up my old Yamaha in her box all safe like but found the dinghy less than abundant with room. My host suggested we'd wade out to the channel anyway, dragging the punt and row us in shifts across the black tide. If you know Devoran creek, or the Kennel river, you'll know the sand banks stretch wide and flat and are quite hard underfoot. Most boats are shallow draft and sit like ducks; our destination was an old quay punt drawing six feet odd and some way out. Still, we thought, we're going to get wet feet but give it a go. I balanced my box on my head while other adventurers joining in, clinked with fresh bottles.

The tide was low, so easy going, hardly knee deep even a cable off shore. The Pandora's twinkling lights illuminating the river and no cloud either. Piece of cake. the first funny thing was stopping for a breather halfway out. My arms were cramping up so I heaved my guitar into the cockpit of a nearby boat and leaned on the deck. To my surprise, there were at least two residents on board who must have been half asleep and stirring at some noise, caught a fleeting glimpse of a ghostly face peering in the porthole. The nightmare apparition vanished from their sight as quickly as it appeared and by the time the skipper was through the hatch and onto the cockpit sole, I'd long gone. I heard a lady's voice saying "It's dream, it's a dream. I told you about eating scallops so late..."

I had by now slung my box in the punt with the bottles as we all dragged her on like Shackleton, across the shoaling creek. The yacht was well in sight and I was pushing the dinghy transom for all I was worth. With a surge, the keel found the edge of the channel and she slid happily forward into her element. Others let go. I did not and plunged, still locked on, into the cold salty water of the creek. Reaction kicked in and got the better of me and I hauled myself, spluttering, into the dinghy bottom to much accompanying laughter and clapping of hands.

Sometime later, dried off by a paraffin cabin heater and a tot or two, we did indeed exchange a few songs and tall tales with our host and his wife - not least the one about the shifting mud banks off the Pandora Inn.

First sail of the year

As the days slowly, slowly lengthened and the sun's rays grew imperceptibly warmer, I got to feeling enough was enough and last week started to prepare for a sail. Admittedly, a couple of matelots in the marina chivied me a bit. They'd never sailed a cutter and the thought of The Promises bow-sprite fair made their eyes water. I was going to await the spring tides but thought better as although there'd be more water over the bar at the Cap, there would also be a noticeable amount of current to boot. I suggested we go out with the half ebb on Tuesday. I'd have to mind my depth but the channels are well marked and the bay was just too damned pretty to waste.

I was doubly pleased to haver the crew back too. I like to think they missed me but they probably ran out of cash and the fore-peak was a cheaper option, once Paris had been exhausted. I could have managed with the novice marina hands, but the crew know how she goes and if there's trouble, a jammed sheet or flogging stays'l to bowse, I can always send the practiced team.

So it was we slid out of the winter berth with the iron tops'l just ticking, rounded up and hauled the main straight away, followed by no. 2 jib to ease her head. As we cleared the pontoons and she started to heel, just a bit, there was a palpable air of excitement aboard. The new boys exchanged wide eyed glances, the crew grinned and me? Well, I was as happy to be afloat as a duck in a bath. I tweaked the main in a foot and one crew instinctively responded with the jib sheet. Now we're in our chosen world, cut the engine and be damned; we're a sailing boat after all. There was plenty of water under the keel and once in the bay, we had up stays'l and the next jib in the bag on deck in readiness.

You soon realise why winter sailing is for toughies though. Even in this latitude, well over a hundred miles south of Blighty, there's still a persistent chill in the wind in late February. It whips over the deck with a cutting edge, the spray is icy and everyone stays huddled with hands in pockets. Even with two pair of socks and new boots, your toes are soon numb standing about. Sail drill then. I had the hands and the crew changing sails and coiling ropes as the galley kettle hummed. Once coffees and a tot appeared, plus ginger biscuits and some 80% chocolate from G&B, there was a happy cockpit. Before us spread a serene horizon; a-port, the coast to Concarneau, and as we flew past the Cap, we could see the acid colours of windsurfers and para-gliders florescing in the low sun out at Mousterlin.

We broad reached out to the point, tacked under the coastguards noses and ran away to the south. I felt a bit like Jack Aubrey, daring some Frenchie guns and smiled at the thought. Grow up Treliven, The Surprise had bigger guns that you and a complement of two hundred. He didn't have to take his novices back for tea though and as pinks began to streak the sky, we tacked about, a green curl to our lee bow wave and headed home for hot soup, the remains of the baguettes and a fruit cake. Perfect.

visitor on deck

That visitor I had on Deck a few days ago, was la Post delivering a parcel in person. Very polite but instead of leaving it in the marina office, as it had to be signed for, they thought they'd look me up. The address "Cutter - The Promise" was too tempting and I end up entertaining a young woman in a blue uniform, English graduate to boot, who's family had once owned "un cotre" much like my own humble ship. Lovely lass, liked my freshly ground coffee and cognac and full of enthusiasm for old boats. She's been all over too. "Les Antiles" especially. I'm surprised she hadn't met one of my absent crew, who also hails from those parts. I had to explain our pole mast, as The Promise doesn't carry a proper topmast - too much rope for a start - but also a little excessive on a 35 footer. She'd carry one, mind but the sail power would be awsome and un-necessary when short handing. Like she is, the tops'l goes up to the truck on a wire halyard and down the same way. Of course, it meant that she could spot my towering rig from the car park and didn't have to ask the man directions. We idled a pleasant few hours and, as it seemed I was her last delivery, had a spot of lunch, as you do. More importantly though, the parcel. Mademoiselle la Post came bearing my agent's marked up proof of my book! More of this particular adventure... next time. Hold hard.

winter drawers on

I've been quiet too long. Low batteries, ice everywhere, condensation in the lockers, frost encrusted rigging. I've spend days sometimes, lost in Patrick O'Brian and Hilary Mantel. (Wolf Hall - some book, if'n you're into history or politics). Oh blast! Some bugger on deck now... Be back soon with tales of coral reefs, sunken treasure and yo'ho'ho.