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...

la Foret - new home

The weather is off. Can't complain I suppose. It is November - the saddest month, they say hereabouts - but The Promise is settled in her new home for the winter, snug from Biscay's temperamental outbursts in the spacious marina at la Foret. There is a lot of plastic to camouflage our old woodwork but we still get admiring remarks from passers by on the footpath that winds up the river, over the lock sluices, past the golf club and into town. I've been here before but not so late in the year. The estuaries are placid in summer, drying out to flat sandiness and green with weeds, whereas now a dull muddy pallor over paints the landscape. trees are bare, save the pinewoods, and the light is low and shy. There is much to entertain though, restaurants and bars, lots to see and places to visit. I got myself a bike, real roadworthy one as opposed to one of those shiny yachty folding types and consequently can venture a bit further afield. I have to hoik it onboard as the captainerie advises petty theft is not unknown, especially by northern Europeans, Germans and Dutch. Strange when you'd think they had enough of their own. Under a cheap tarp' the bike resides quietly as I await a break in the weather.

It's damp now, 50% chance of rain but not cold. No frost to nip the fingers and harden the halyards. No ice in the lockers either. Cold is a damned thing. Canvas solidifies, as do ropes of all fibres. Handles stick to buckets and anything left in the bucket adheres to it with alacrity. The crew have abandoned me for the time. Off to Paris for the sights, as one has never been and is a bit of an artist. Its hard to recollect them scampering about all tanned as their lanky forms are now swathed in layers of polartech under their la Glazic smocks. The other was a dab hand in the galley too. Her clafoutis was a custardy triumph and my whiskey will miss the cold leftover slices.

Ah me. The boat is mine own for as long as they take, if they return at all. I've given the batteries a charge so I can curl up later with a decent book - Peter Pye's excellent omnibus - and put a little Elgar on the tiny stereo. If I don't end in tears it will be a miracle.

When I was a lad, I was introduced to the classics by an old man on a wandering yacht. It happened to be Grieg's piano concerto but ever since the sound of the open sea and full orchestra have been inseparable. He ended up on a reef in the caribbean but his influence lingers on. Funny how a chance meeting over fifty years ago can make such a difference on your life. Someone said something like give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man. I know many people blessed and cursed by that one. Enough philosophy, the kettle is beginning to hum, lamps need to be lit and distant calls of farewell can be heard about the boatyards. Time for tea.