I'm not sure why I tied up along a busy small pontoon at the head of the creek. There were plenty of places to dry out on the mud. I guess it gave me better access to the small lane network and footpaths around the valley in case I wanted a late evening stroll. I could have dried out further downstream on the muddy beaches and tied a long warp to a convenient tree. For surely, one of the joys of dinghy cruising in small boats is to take advantage of our shallow drafts. But, occasionally the lure of convenience takes over and so it was the pontoon.
Arriving at a pontoon heaving with ribs of assorted sizes is always a stressful affair for me. No idea why, it just is, but a slow approach over the last 40m enabled me to pick out a spot at the landward end of the pontoon, alongside a small aluminium dory. Full of children's life jackets, I had a hunch it would be moving sooner rather than later as a a family started back down the creek in time for a mid evening bedtime. (A hunch which 30 minutes later proved right).
A rib arrived disgorging a young couple and puppy. "Lovely set up - what is she?" "Self built, John Welsford designed 'navigator'", I reply proudly. "Wow, would love to build my own, love your boat, great lines" and they were gone up the steps.
I temporarily moored at an awkward angle, the transom corner of the dory halfway along Arwen's port beam. I packed the area well with fenders and ran a stern line across the dory to a pontoon cleat. A stern spring was also put out and so Arwen came to rest, bobbing gently on the tide in around a metre of water depth. Every available fender had been used to protect her and the dory and whaler either side. It had taken me several minutes to work out how to loop my warps around the already 'packed' pontoon cleats. So many lines, like heaps of spilt spaghetti strewn across the green non slip deck of the pontoon sides. Clearly, not every sailor has careful seamanship qualities when it comes to storing surplus mooring warp line on a pontoon! And so, I sneakily went along and tidied things up, put spare warp back in boats and made things shipshape on the pontoon. Her indoors says I have autistic tendencies, which often manifest themselves, in fits of excessive tidying up!
More ribs arrived, a flurry of activity ensuing as crew pushed over boats aside to try and create a minute gap into which their bow could nose.
"Lovely set up - what is she?"
"That looks a well set out boat, congratulations"
"She's seen some miles under her - lovely"
A late arriving Cornish Shrimper provided much amusement, in a nice way. Two couple on board with refined upper class accents, shouting precise instructions and distances to the helm. Their discussion of mooring tactics both funny and illuminating simultaneously, full of good seamanship and give them their due, they managed to fit the Shrimper with its bow sprit, bow to the pontoon. I'm still not sure how they did it but it was most impressive. Bankers, barristers, dentists or senior surgeons is where my money went on their profession. Terrible, shameful stereotyping on my part. The women looked slightly horrified and bemused at Arwen's spartan interior, the men more intrigued I suspect. Gin o clock was calling, they didn't stop.
I sat in the sun awhile and added notes to my logbook. Several minutes were spent tidying up Arwen - spare warps were coiled, spray water sponged out of the bilges. Halyards, sheets and yards coiled and stored in their designated cockpit halyard bag.
Being slightly paranoiac at the best of times, I fiddled with mooring warps, adjusting them and leaving a bit more slack in them to take account of the falling tide. I wasn't quite sure what the depth of the pontoon was above the seabed when the tide drained away but I was certain I didn't want Arwen hanging on it!
In a quiet spell when no more ribs were arriving and everyone had walked up to the award winning country pub and restaurant, the Millbrook Inn, I did a quick bit of video filming about setting Arwen up for sleeping on board. Sleeping platform was assembled, self inflating sleeping mat, sleeping bag and blankets laid out. Cushions were pulled from the under the fore-deck locker and 'scattered' across the aft cockpit. The galley box was pulled to its 'cook' position on the port centre thwart and the lid was placed on the opposite thwart with utensils, pans and water container laid out.
The white tarpaulin tent, had already been fitted, pulled back so it was just over the forward part of Arwen's cockpit. All of a sudden, Arwen, was in the words of Roger Barnes, becoming more 'homely'.
Beneath her hull, a shoal of mullet bumped her bottom and created plopping and splashing sounds as they played chase. Having admired the mullet I went to meet the swans. Well, they came to meet me at the pontoon end. Much tail wagging, head bobbing and disappointment signalled by some severe hissing. I hadn't bought any titbits, disgraceful frankly. They glided away downstream on what remained of the little stream and tidal flow, necks bent in hissy conversation, me clearly the subject of swannery gossip. I'd blotted my copybook and they wouldn't forget!
A lurch of the pontoon end signified the last of the tidal waters ebbing away. The family of the aluminium dory arrived and we moved the warps around a bit and pushed Arwen back a little so they could escape. A lovely family with a bonkers dog. I seized the opportunity to lay Arwen fully alongside the pontoon and only just in time. A foot of water or so remained above the mud/gravel beach.
As I sat in the boat moving the solar panel around to gain the last of the sinking sun, the first of a steady of pub revellers began arriving. 1930, it was now or never in terms of leaving. By 2030, this creek would be dry and no one would be leaving the pontoon.
And so started a fun thirty minutes as people came and stared at the weird guy camping on board under a white tarp. In truth, there were quite a few returning rib owners who secretly quite envied me my cosy home I suspect. For all the excitement of a large rib, there is no beating the simplicity, elegance and humble modesty of a simply fitted out cruising dinghy. The normal questions ensued........
"So what length is she, what is she like out at sea?"
"What kind of sail configuration do you have......oh, how do you find having a mizzen as well?"
"What's her construction materials? Does she row well?"
"What's the furthest you've been in her?"
My favourite conversation of the night was with a lady in her early seventies, who reminded me of our former politician Ann Widdecombe.........see if you can work out why...........
"Oh, what a lovely little drascombe, a dabber isn't it"
No, its a self built boat, a John Welsford 'Navigator'
"No, don't be silly young man, I know boats , been around them all my life, that's a drascombe, you should research your boat better"
"Forgive me, but I built it from plans and it is a navigator"
"Nonsense, two masts, bowsprit, would know a drascombe anywhere, doesn't point very well to the wind does it?"
"Well no, she does point to about 60 d off the wind but that is due to my poor sailing skill"
"Poppycock, young man, typical characteristic of a drascombe, there we go, I know my boats, drascombe it is. A fine boat, although yours clearly needs some better care. And a tarp tent, get some duckcotton, make yourself a proper cockpit tent"
And with that, she disappeared, her still continuing conversation about the merits of duckcotton canvas carrying back on the gentle evening breeze; her long suffering husband in tow, his last whispered words with an accompanying wink
"Lovely boat Sir, very envious"
And then they were all gone. Arwen settled onto the mud, a little slack still left in her mooring warps. The sun sank lower over the South Hams plateau, turning the little stream surface into a million sparkling, dancing diamonds. A gaggle of Canadian geese drifted by, bottoms up, heads down, searching for morsels of food.
And then the cockles and clams began their competition.
Across the muddy expanses, jets of water shot from the mud. Some mere whimpers, 15cm or so. But some were positively gargantuan, reaching a metre in height. It was a fascinating absorbing sight. As was the little tern wading the waters edges. Several lugworm met their end as the tern thrust its beak into the mud and triumphantly pulled a wriggling unsuspecting worm from its burrow - tidal creek life is pretty brutal. The wading egret rapiered worms, flatfish and sandeels. A crab that broke cover met its end under the beak of a gull who played toss with it for several minutes. Brutal!
The trangia stove hissed, the water bubbled, steam rose and the boil in the bag camp meal heated up. The sky turned peachy, then deep pink and finally tangerine orange as the sun set behind distant hills.
Eventually, it turned deep dark blue and the myriad of stars appeared to sparkle in the darkness. The little stream trickled across the muddy beach alongside Arwen, the larger brook, gurgled off the pontoon end. Owls hooted, the piercing cry of an egret carried across the valley.
Perfect, an absolutely perfect day. People watching, gently sailing the outer estuary and inner creek, stunning scenery, lovely people, nature at its best.
Its why we build boats!
Arriving at a pontoon heaving with ribs of assorted sizes is always a stressful affair for me. No idea why, it just is, but a slow approach over the last 40m enabled me to pick out a spot at the landward end of the pontoon, alongside a small aluminium dory. Full of children's life jackets, I had a hunch it would be moving sooner rather than later as a a family started back down the creek in time for a mid evening bedtime. (A hunch which 30 minutes later proved right).
A rib arrived disgorging a young couple and puppy. "Lovely set up - what is she?" "Self built, John Welsford designed 'navigator'", I reply proudly. "Wow, would love to build my own, love your boat, great lines" and they were gone up the steps.
I temporarily moored at an awkward angle, the transom corner of the dory halfway along Arwen's port beam. I packed the area well with fenders and ran a stern line across the dory to a pontoon cleat. A stern spring was also put out and so Arwen came to rest, bobbing gently on the tide in around a metre of water depth. Every available fender had been used to protect her and the dory and whaler either side. It had taken me several minutes to work out how to loop my warps around the already 'packed' pontoon cleats. So many lines, like heaps of spilt spaghetti strewn across the green non slip deck of the pontoon sides. Clearly, not every sailor has careful seamanship qualities when it comes to storing surplus mooring warp line on a pontoon! And so, I sneakily went along and tidied things up, put spare warp back in boats and made things shipshape on the pontoon. Her indoors says I have autistic tendencies, which often manifest themselves, in fits of excessive tidying up!
More ribs arrived, a flurry of activity ensuing as crew pushed over boats aside to try and create a minute gap into which their bow could nose.
"Lovely set up - what is she?"
"That looks a well set out boat, congratulations"
"She's seen some miles under her - lovely"
A late arriving Cornish Shrimper provided much amusement, in a nice way. Two couple on board with refined upper class accents, shouting precise instructions and distances to the helm. Their discussion of mooring tactics both funny and illuminating simultaneously, full of good seamanship and give them their due, they managed to fit the Shrimper with its bow sprit, bow to the pontoon. I'm still not sure how they did it but it was most impressive. Bankers, barristers, dentists or senior surgeons is where my money went on their profession. Terrible, shameful stereotyping on my part. The women looked slightly horrified and bemused at Arwen's spartan interior, the men more intrigued I suspect. Gin o clock was calling, they didn't stop.
I sat in the sun awhile and added notes to my logbook. Several minutes were spent tidying up Arwen - spare warps were coiled, spray water sponged out of the bilges. Halyards, sheets and yards coiled and stored in their designated cockpit halyard bag.
Being slightly paranoiac at the best of times, I fiddled with mooring warps, adjusting them and leaving a bit more slack in them to take account of the falling tide. I wasn't quite sure what the depth of the pontoon was above the seabed when the tide drained away but I was certain I didn't want Arwen hanging on it!
In a quiet spell when no more ribs were arriving and everyone had walked up to the award winning country pub and restaurant, the Millbrook Inn, I did a quick bit of video filming about setting Arwen up for sleeping on board. Sleeping platform was assembled, self inflating sleeping mat, sleeping bag and blankets laid out. Cushions were pulled from the under the fore-deck locker and 'scattered' across the aft cockpit. The galley box was pulled to its 'cook' position on the port centre thwart and the lid was placed on the opposite thwart with utensils, pans and water container laid out.
The white tarpaulin tent, had already been fitted, pulled back so it was just over the forward part of Arwen's cockpit. All of a sudden, Arwen, was in the words of Roger Barnes, becoming more 'homely'.
Beneath her hull, a shoal of mullet bumped her bottom and created plopping and splashing sounds as they played chase. Having admired the mullet I went to meet the swans. Well, they came to meet me at the pontoon end. Much tail wagging, head bobbing and disappointment signalled by some severe hissing. I hadn't bought any titbits, disgraceful frankly. They glided away downstream on what remained of the little stream and tidal flow, necks bent in hissy conversation, me clearly the subject of swannery gossip. I'd blotted my copybook and they wouldn't forget!
A lurch of the pontoon end signified the last of the tidal waters ebbing away. The family of the aluminium dory arrived and we moved the warps around a bit and pushed Arwen back a little so they could escape. A lovely family with a bonkers dog. I seized the opportunity to lay Arwen fully alongside the pontoon and only just in time. A foot of water or so remained above the mud/gravel beach.
As I sat in the boat moving the solar panel around to gain the last of the sinking sun, the first of a steady of pub revellers began arriving. 1930, it was now or never in terms of leaving. By 2030, this creek would be dry and no one would be leaving the pontoon.
"So what length is she, what is she like out at sea?"
"What kind of sail configuration do you have......oh, how do you find having a mizzen as well?"
"What's her construction materials? Does she row well?"
"What's the furthest you've been in her?"
My favourite conversation of the night was with a lady in her early seventies, who reminded me of our former politician Ann Widdecombe.........see if you can work out why...........
"Oh, what a lovely little drascombe, a dabber isn't it"
No, its a self built boat, a John Welsford 'Navigator'
"No, don't be silly young man, I know boats , been around them all my life, that's a drascombe, you should research your boat better"
"Forgive me, but I built it from plans and it is a navigator"
"Nonsense, two masts, bowsprit, would know a drascombe anywhere, doesn't point very well to the wind does it?"
"Well no, she does point to about 60 d off the wind but that is due to my poor sailing skill"
"Poppycock, young man, typical characteristic of a drascombe, there we go, I know my boats, drascombe it is. A fine boat, although yours clearly needs some better care. And a tarp tent, get some duckcotton, make yourself a proper cockpit tent"
And with that, she disappeared, her still continuing conversation about the merits of duckcotton canvas carrying back on the gentle evening breeze; her long suffering husband in tow, his last whispered words with an accompanying wink
"Lovely boat Sir, very envious"
And then they were all gone. Arwen settled onto the mud, a little slack still left in her mooring warps. The sun sank lower over the South Hams plateau, turning the little stream surface into a million sparkling, dancing diamonds. A gaggle of Canadian geese drifted by, bottoms up, heads down, searching for morsels of food.
Across the muddy expanses, jets of water shot from the mud. Some mere whimpers, 15cm or so. But some were positively gargantuan, reaching a metre in height. It was a fascinating absorbing sight. As was the little tern wading the waters edges. Several lugworm met their end as the tern thrust its beak into the mud and triumphantly pulled a wriggling unsuspecting worm from its burrow - tidal creek life is pretty brutal. The wading egret rapiered worms, flatfish and sandeels. A crab that broke cover met its end under the beak of a gull who played toss with it for several minutes. Brutal!
The trangia stove hissed, the water bubbled, steam rose and the boil in the bag camp meal heated up. The sky turned peachy, then deep pink and finally tangerine orange as the sun set behind distant hills.
Eventually, it turned deep dark blue and the myriad of stars appeared to sparkle in the darkness. The little stream trickled across the muddy beach alongside Arwen, the larger brook, gurgled off the pontoon end. Owls hooted, the piercing cry of an egret carried across the valley.
Perfect, an absolutely perfect day. People watching, gently sailing the outer estuary and inner creek, stunning scenery, lovely people, nature at its best.
Its why we build boats!
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