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How did I get into this…
I mentioned in passing to our esteemed Commodore that we were hoping to get to Normandy this year. A tentative aspiration,
as I was not too happy about crossing the Thames Estuary, with its Swatchways and Ships – not the little ones that Maurice
Griffiths wrote about, but the huge monsters doing 12 to 20 knots.
Before I knew what had happened, it became an official PSSA rally !
You may remember that July’s weather was particularly awful. And against the background of synoptic charts looking like
a hyperactive three-year old’s scribbles, we started with a Cruiser fleet party at Brancaster Staithe out on the drying
sands. Draughty and drizzling, we still mustered a cheerful crowd of 16 on board ‘Liberty’.
Down the East Coast
Then on, we dodged the gales to get down to the Orwell, meeting up with Paul and Sheila Ashford, ‘Dawnchild’s owners, at
Lowestoft’s Royal Norfolk and Suffolk Y C for dinner on the way.
We were not optimistic that we were going much further, and cruised the Orwell and Stour, meeting my wife Chloe for her
Significant Birthday party on board at Shotley.
Next day we took the boat to Harwich to have a gentle stroll around the revived historic centre. No chance; the surging
swell was crashing the boats around uncontrollably. We got Chloe to shore and she returned to Shotley by the ferry.
As we made a dash for the river Blackwater, an SMS came through that Pat and Pam Morgan on ‘Phun’ were already at Ramsgate.
This called for a Plan Review, and the crew agreed we try to catch them up.
We winkled our way across the Thames Estuary, and having missed the tidal gate round the North Foreland anchored close to
Reculver Towers. It seemed OK, but the swell built up to make it the most noisy and uncomfortable night for many a year.
Pity the poor sailors who used to anchor in the Margate Roads for weeks waiting for a fair wind!
With relief we weighed anchor and slipped round the corner next morning to Ramsgate to recover, and shop, and after the
hailstorm made Dover for a quieter night.
Channel Crossing
From Dover to Boulogne was not as bad as we feared, despite Roger having a terrible migraine. Our new AIS helped to take
away much of the grief (more of that next issue, with luck). France at last. With sun, too.
France
Boulogne required some careful study on the gastronomic front: Roger and Brian were rather like children let loose in Hamley’s
for the first time, with an open air market in the square loaded with cheeses, fruit and veg, and all sorts of home grown
delicacies. Then we had to ensure that such establishments as the “Pecheurs D’Etaples” were still serving food up to standard.
Brian, our much valued chef, had to go home on an emergency at this point, much to his chagrin – and ours; he is the only
person I know who will pop his head out of the cabin in a churning sea as you bat along at 45 degrees to say “Now, who fancies
a bacon sarnie?”!
This left Roger and I to take ‘Liberty’ to Dieppe – quite the worst part of the trip, with an unrelenting rough sea on the
nose, and southwesterly to match. We had to make do with Le Treport, which we knew from our bleak January recce was gong
to be our least favourite port.
Oh well, any Treport in a storm…
Spoilt for choice when we finally made Dieppe, we made for “Le New Haven” after the odd glass of Leffe – worth a visit for
fish lovers.
We breakfasted off mackerel, courtesy of our neighbour, Patrick Fabrice, who had been out fishing the day before.
The Fecamp Meeting
Finally we caught up with ‘Phun’ in Fecamp, arriving to our surprise as planned. Pat and Pam entertained us that evening
and we sat out to watch the impressive Bastille Day fireworks display.
After a late night we strolled gently into town to see round the Benedictine Palace, which has only tenuous links with any
monks. It is a glorious Victorian edifice to which Augustus Pugin would have been proud to have put his name. Well worth
a visit for the gloriously over decorated architecture, the art collections and of course a drop of the liqueur.
At lunchtime we gathered for the Association lunch at “le Maritime” on the cool first floor out of the brilliant hot sun.
We toasted the Association and its absent Commodore, who was paying for the drinks (ah… didn’t we tell you, Clifford?).
By the way, the Pilot refers to one of the last traditional ‘pissoirs’ here. I never found it; if you do, please tell the
publishers.
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The French Tidal Harbours
We moved on to St Valery-en-Caux (do not confuse the two St Valery’s!) which is a pretty seaside resort, and it rained-
and rained – and rained. Like Noah, we were glad we had our own Ark. By next morning a smart 50 ft Beneteau had cramped
our exit. When I went up on the quay to work out our exit past it and an 8 ft bowsprit next to us I could not help but notice
the shapely young lady sunbathing topless on the deck of the Beneteau. Having worked out how we could drop back on the bow
mooring line, I noticed she had turned over…not shy, surely! We succeeded in our manoeuvre, and enjoyed an easy trip back
to Dieppe.
Our next ports of call were in the Somme estuary, which needs careful handling. It is well marked, but the tortuous channel
is seven miles from entrance to St Valery-sur-Somme.
We first went into Le Crotoy, another family resort with rather cock-eyed marina arrangements, due to an elusive harbourmaster.
You could not get out or in without a key, and only he could provide it. However, it was a friendly little place.
The other feature was the sluices which open up on the ebb, and gush out water to help keep the channel open, with such
force that the brown foam reaches to the gunnels of the inside boats. That’s why they put visitors at the far end!
We then moved across to St Valery-sur-Somme. With strong northeasterlies (would you believe it) we had another day in port,
and settled to domestic matters – laundry, supermarket, work on the boat. An attractive old town, but swamped by tourists,
and very few ‘real’ shops.
Off at crack of dawn to make a swift exit before the high tide ebbed away, we met a turmoil of waves at the Somme entrance
as the swift current met the onshore wind. One unexpected lurch and we had the Great Muesli Disaster all over the cabin.
Thank heaven it wasn’t bacon and eggs.
Southwesterlies propelled us at speed through a quartering sea past Etaples; we were sorry to have to miss it, but time
was getting a little short for a diversion which would have taken an extra two days in and out of the Canche.
The Return
And so back to Boulogne, where Brian rejoined us, after much difficulty with erratic weekend French transport. Roger was
greatly relieved too be able to return the ‘chef’s ladle’ to him.
We celebrated his return at “Le Doyen” a delightful, if cosy, restaurant off the market place, and to prepare us for the
return crossing and give Brian a fair share of French food, lunched at the “Pecheurs D’Etaples” again.
Off at 5.30 am then a swift but exhausting crossing – due to the busy shipping and ferry traffic – and we made Ramsgate
before lunch. We finished one of Roger’s memorable Cassoulets and met up with Cliff Hocking on ‘Pelican. He was returning
solo from Dunkirk, making for Benfleet.
Another rubbish forecast, so we stayed in Ramsgate next day, visiting the Maritime Museum, and dining at The Indian Restaurant
just below the Royal Temple Y C where we sat on the terrace for quiet drink. The restaurant is one of the best of its kind.
The forecasts were not getting any better, but with southwesterlies for a day we made a dash around North Foreland for Harwich
– except half way there I suggested we carried on to Lowestoft. The wind was gusting up to force 7 by the time we got in,
making steering very hard, but at least it was on the stern.
Then we had a day of winds gusting 43 knots. We stayed put, once more.
On the home ‘straight’ – actually a 60 mile long curve round to Brancaster, we always expect difficulty; we were not disappointed.
As usual, the wind around Cromer was dead on the nose and we struggled against the short sea with the tide now against us.
By Wells-next the-Sea we knew we would not make it home, so invited Chloe over for fish and chips from “French’s” – and
would she mind taking some of our kit home.
Next day was a similar thrash to windward for the 12 miles back home. It took nearly three hours to get to our mooring.
In all a very satisfying cruise, juggling weather, wind and tide to get a long way despite unpromising forecasts without
being foolhardy.
Saying of the year
“Yacht calling Cromer and Sheringham Harbours, this is Yarmouth Coastguard. There is no Cromer or Sheringham Harbour, your
nearest Harbour is Wells-next-the Sea”
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