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.

This snow stuff was not expected - at least, not by yours truly. It's not unknown as these aren't exactly the tropics but I'd have thought a milder winter was in store. I brush off the decks religiously and mind my feet but still it snows. I'm reminded of pictures of the Curlew in South Georgia or the Pyes in Vancouver, visiting Miles and Beryl Smeeton on Tzu Hang. At least they were prepared for the Canadian climate, whereas I am a creature with a more tropic of cancer bloodstream and find the cold initially bracing but eventually wearing. Both those references smack of heroism and true adventure. Curlew is a Falmouth Quay Punt, now in residence at the National Maritime Museum, Cornwall. She was famously the boat and home of Tim and Pauline Carr. They shunned the popular cruising grounds of the Med and Caribbean for the southern wastes in a 30 ft old wooden gaff cutter. Fifty years before them, Peter and Ann Pye sailed their engineless Looe fishing boat, Moonraker (ex Lilly) to the pacific, the Baltic and Brazil. Dr. Pye's books are riveting, not least for his captivating and beautifully written narrative but also for the incredible understatement of their achievements. Ah me. The world was a simpler place in 1952. I imagine they had their pressures; society was in flux after the war and their world, the pre war world, was changed for ever. Pye himself was unhappy with the proposed National Health Service and so I guess he dropped out. Compared with today it looks a peach. Their black and white photographs look strangely familiar right now as I poke my head out and gaze at a scene of extreme contrast. The bright whiteness of the snow covered marina renders any shade to black. Yachty goretex and Musto gear stands out in brilliant modern colours and figures move about in technicolor silhouette like a Lowry in psychedelia. I'm going to don a coat and find someone to partake in a brandy at the marina bar. Later I might do a few bits on board, or more likely tramp into the village for a cosy dinner with a mate - if I can find one to brave it. Wish me luck. It's cold out there.

Early Arctic blasts

Forecast is for rain but we've had snow here. Force 3, NNW but cold, and this is Biscay. I can't imagine it will stick but there's an icing sugar look to the coach roof and every vista is etched in deep contrast. La Foret's wooded backdrop looks bare and dark and the sky is the colour of Blakes primer. Ropes are like bars and every step crunches underfoot. This weather is very early and not encouraging. If I start to get damp below I wonder if I'll stay the winter. There's a fine line between ventilation and condensation on an old boat. Early days yet. It'll warm up, just you wait and see...