Grimsby was the plan of the day, and at 0300 this morning I prised myself from my bunk and got myself dressed for sea.

At 0325 I cast off the pontoon and headed out through the remarkably tricky channel at Wells harbour. I pass the first marker post, but in the twilight, couldn’t make out the next tiny, unlit buoy, and ended up head the wrong side of it. I promptly ran up on the mud, albeit softly since I was goig slow, expecting something like this to happen in the darkness.

There was no drama in getting off. I put the outboard into reverse and wiggled it from side to side on full chat. This danced Kudu’s keels off the mud and back into the channel. I started ahead again, promising to be more vigilant. The rest of the lengthy channel passed without incidence, although by the time I got to the last three sets of port/starboard makers, the chop of the sand bars was making it very bumpy. I was told to expect a rough ride until the lead in buoy which is about a quarter mile offshore, but as I passed it, the motion of the boat changed little.

I hoisted sails and set off with one reef in the main and a few rolls in the genoa. Yarmouth coastguard issued a maritime safety information broadcast over the radio, which is essentially, the shipping forecast as you hear on Radio4 , but limited to local areas. The wind direction was as expected, but synopsis was terminated by the words “becoming six”. Great, a force 6. It’s not a gale, it’s not even something to particularly worry about, but it is a strong wind, and the sea was already very uncomfortable as it was. I didn’t want to be out there in a F6, but since I was at sea already, I pressed on.

After the forecast was issued over the radio I glanced at my wind instrument to see what sort of winds I was getting at that moment. 0.0 knots, it said. That’s not right, I thought as I looked up to the masthead. “oh bloody hell!” The annometer had fallen of the masthead instrument, so while I could still see the winds direction, I couldn’t tell how strong it was. This is no huge deal. Knowing the wind speed or direction on a screen is of no massive benefit that I’m aware of. Sure, it’d help me more quickly know how to trim the sails, but it’s nothing you can’t tell from a moments wind on your face. Experience hasn’t yet taught to to gauge it’s speed though.

Slightly annoyed that I was now without both wind and log (boat speed) instruments, I set the tiller pilot and went below to make a coffee. I prepared my mug and put the kettle on, before going back into the cockpit since sinbad was struggling a bit. Since repositioning him, he’s been much better, but still struggles with both steep seas and gusts, so in those conditions I only felt comfortable leaving him in command for a moment or two.

The next thing to disturb my day out was the stove. Due to the way it’s mounted, I couldn’t, when I fitted it last year, screw one of the gimbals to anything, so I bolted it to a piece of L shaped aluminium, and then stuck that down with a few strips of “no more nails”. Apparently this stuff is so strong that you don’t need to use nails. Apparently.

In fairness, it was. I actually cocked up up a little when I first stuck it down and I couldn’t remove it again to reposition it. It was well and truly stuck, and has been for the last 10 months. Today however, it decided that nails were indeed needed and just let go. The stove, and attached kettle of water, were swinging about the galley table and threatening all kinds of damage/spillage/fire. I switched it off, removed the stove from it’s good gimbal, and put it on the cabin sole with a sigh.

Great, I thought, that’s all I need. An early morning start without access to coffee. Heck, I can’t heat my supernoodle lunch either. To add to this, the sea was, for the first time ever, making me feel ill. I think it was the sea anyway, it could have been the early morning exercise and lack of caffeine and food. Regardless, morale was suffering on Kudu by now.

The nearly beam on sea was atrocious by this point and a new, well old problem reappeared. Some hefty weight in the starboard keel was moving freely as the boat got thumped latterly by the sea. It was no dull sound though, not a noise to put to the back of one’s mind. It was loud. Very loud, and sent shudders through the boat.

I had previously encountered this on the Deben bar and thought it was the lose lead trimming ballast, but had since presumed this problem was solved by packing them in tightly. Apparently it wasn’t the trimming ballast after all. It could only be the main ballast, which is encapsulated in GRP in the centre of the keels. I couldn’t get at these and the noise was so servere that I was genuinely worried about the integrity of the keel. Too much of this and it could potentially crack it and flood the boat. This thought did not help morale on board.

I looked at the chart plotter and the estimated time to just north of Skegness, which was still many hours away from Grimsby, but close enough to the shore to beach her if the worst should happen. I was 5 hours off. With this in mind I looked at the paper chart, and then then pilot book, and decided to run for Wainfleet, a small creek on the north shore of the Wash, near Gibraltar point. GPS estimated 4.5 hours.

I maintained this course for about half an hour before the shuddering got the better of me and I decided for a closer refuge. I swung the boat south and headed back to the south shore, towards Brancaster harbour, a short distance west from where I started in Wells.

When I was in wells I met a great chap called Max, who’s a volunteer for the local lifeboat crew. We had shared a few pints in the local pub and stories of the sea, and he was full of local knowledge to help me out. At about 6AM, I sent him a text message telling him my plans for Brancaster, and much to my surprise, I got a phone call a few moments later. Used to his RNLI pager, Max had developed the habit of waking to any sort of beeping noise, and my text message invoked his life savers autopilot. Sorry Max.

We discussed my plan and he suggested that given the wind direction I would be better anchoring closer to Wells in Holkam Bay. I peered at the chart and accepted his advice: It was more sheltered from the westerly.

I arrived at Holkam Bay about an hour and 15 minutes later, then dropped the anchor. The motion was still appalling, and the tide/wind combination still left me mostly beam on to the sea, which was still causing the lateral slamming that set the keel off. I put up with it for a while, but then could bear it no more. I left the anchor down but raised the sails and hove to. This totally calmed the motion of the boat, and I relaxed a little. Enough in fact, to rig my fishing rod and try for some mackrel, futile as it turned out to be.

I had to wait in Holkam Bay until it was safe, indeed possible, to get over the bar into Wells. Max suggested 12:45 would be the earliest he’s recommend, and that was still 5 hours away. I had had enough by now. I just wanted to be still and comfortable, so I waited a while to check we weren’t drifting on the anchor, then went to bed with my egg timer set for an hour. After an hour, I woke, killed the timer alarm, peered out the window, and repeated.

On the last wakening I was 30 minutes of safe entry time, and when I peered out the window I was slightly surprised. We had drifted right across the bay and were dangerously close to the breaking sand bar. I quickly organised myself and got on deck to start the engine and weigh the anchor.

It took almost thirty minutes to motor the relatively short distance to the lead in buoy for Wells harbour. This is an outer marker buoy that forms a safe point of departure to the first set of channel buoys. To the sides of it were sand banks. Hitting these could be catastrophic, so I was careful, very.

And then there I was, back on the same pontoon as I departed hours before. I was dismayed, but relieved, and went to see Rob, the chap who runs the local chandlers, for a chat. He swiftly perked up my day with a dose of seafarers comradery. Parts were located and solutions were suggested, and finally, he took me off to see Bob, the harbour master. Bob has very kindly offered to lift Kudu out of the water tomorrow so I can set about fixing the keel, and drop the mast to finally sort the VHF antenna out, as well as the wind instrument.

Things are looking up already, but I am now left with a distaste for the Wash which needs resolving. Tuesday looks good!

I’ve got a day of favourable weather tomorrow, so I’m going to be heading north once more and pointing to Grimsby, but while I’m still here, I wanted to take the opportunity to offer some visitors tips to this little fishing town on the North Norfolk coast.

Wells seems to be something of the tourist trap, but thankfully many steps removed from the likes of Blackpool. Instead of drunk teenagers and shops that sell disposable memories, this place offers local produce, friendly shop owners, and not a Tesco in sight.

Ok, there is a Costcutter, but even they sell a selection of locally grown veg, locally produced cottage industry cheeses, and locally borne friendliness.

For example, I write this in a cafe I found on the high street, “Bean 2 the coast”. My distaste for company names with numbers in place of words (phones4u) is forgotten about in light of the fact that this is the best cafe I have ever visited. I came here yesterday after an uncontrollable urge for a mocha and some lunch. An hour later, having devoured a tune baguette, my divinely chocolatey mocha, a pot of tea, a fresh warm scone with clotted cream and jam, and a good deal of conversation with the patrons and owners alike, I left to a chorus of “good luck!”. I left with a smile, and today I have some back. I’ve been losing weight anyway, so this mocha and it’s scone sequel are for health reasons only, I promise

So, there it is, Bean 2 the coast, Kudu’s recommended essential Norfolk dining. 20 Staithe Street, Wells-next-the-Sea.

After the cafe, I went hunting for a budget boaters boom tent. There are two chandlers in Wells, one at either end of the town. I visited both, and while one was as friendly as any shop keeper should be, the other was just an exceptionally nice guy, and so, without his knowledge I might add, I am going to mention him here along with my recommendation.

After failing to find what I wanted at the chandlers at the other end of town, a tarpaulin, I took a walk back towards the boat, where I spotted the other, smaller chandlers. I popped in there on the off chance. He didn’t have any, but he did correctly suggest a visit to the hardware store in town, where I picked up a 6×4 foot tarp for 99p. New tarpaulin in hand, I wondered back to the chandlers for some elastic. I bought 4 meters, and he gave me the plastic toggle balls for free. Later, having discovered my lazy jacks weren’t long enough to drop and get the boom tent over, I went back to source some small hooks to fashion a removable lazy jack system. I left with the advice of Keep it Simple, and a few meters of chord to lengthen my lazy jacks. He didn’t charge me, and while I had told him I was sailing around Britain, I hadn’t told him just how much traffic this website gets, so that generosity was just that. Generosity. He’s also a friendly guy, and well priced too. A friendly chandlers that’s both friendly AND cheap, well, that’s a rare bird as they say.

www.harbourchandlery.co.uk

Right then, scone time. I’ve got boat tidying, laundry and passage planning to do today. I think it’s going to be a fairly early start tomorrow for my journey up to Grimsby, where hopefully I’ll catch up with the Squib fleet I meant at the Royal Norfolk and Suffolk Yacht Club 150th regatta a couple of weeks ago.

After waking at 1130, dosing myself with caffine, and tidying the boat, I weighed anchor in the darkness. I knew the rock reef was close, so I left the anchor alarm on. If I heard it go off while I was stowing the anchor I could at least making some quick arrangment and dive for the helm. It didn’t go off and so after securly stowing the CQR anchor, I went after to steer us out between the just visible cardinal markers.

Then I saw a wall in the water. The boat was headed directly to the rocks, and I could see something solid in the water about 5m off my bow, I yanked the helm right over and reached over the back to turn the outboard in an effort to bring theboat around quicker. I was too late though, Kudu hit the solid patch, but to my relief, I discovered it was just a build up of scum in the water that had collected around the reef, and was thick enough to appear solid in the darkness.

I had the boat safely turned away from the rocks and by now my eyes had adjusted enough to see that we were a good 10m off them. We motored out in to a dead calm North Sea once more. Not a breath of wind disturbed the night, but in hope, I raised the mainsail anyway, leaving a reef in just in case.

I settled into the night sail with Radio 4, but had to resort to Radio 2 as soon as they played their closing down music, sailing away. It sends me to sleep, and I was tired enough as it was. Radio 2 was playing some reasonable music, so I left it on for about an hour, before picking up the worldservice to listen to what state the world was getting itself into today. Vote rigging in Iran. if only they went to sea, I thought, if those leaders and people causing the fuss just went sailing, they would forget about their petty power struggle, flog some more oil, and retire to a large yacht. What do I know though, I’m just a spectator to their games.

Fatigue was getting to me now, so I made another cup of coffee. I didn’t help, it just made me feel more jittery rather than awake, so I found a snack in the galley and rested, slumped in the cockpit with the engine pushing us forward at 1.5 knots over ground.

A few yachts passed me in the night heading in the opposite direction, and I intially mistook their running lights for buoys. I checked the chart and could find anythign near me, so grabbed the binoculars. I could make out the mast and boom, and then made sense of the lights I was seeing. The mast steaming light and the green starboard light. I could tell it was green only when magnified.

A faint strip of orange persited on the east horizon, and I desperately wished the sun to appear. I knew the light would wake me up a bit, and I was in dire need of waking up. Eventually the light grew stronger until I looked like the sun had risen. I hadn’t seen the life giving orange ball peak it’s friendly face out from the sea, so I presumed it had just gone up behind the haze.

It wasn’t until I reached Cromer that I realised the sun hadn’t actually yet risen properly, and so witnessed the proper sunrise in the company of a nearby fisherman collecting his lobster pots. He was out there on a small open boat, about the same size as Kudu at 0400 in the morning. This morning made his job enviable. It was so still, and relatively warm, but I knew this man would probably go out in all weather, and this easy day was probably a treat for him too.

I continued mortoring mast Cromer and eventually enter lobster land. A carpet of lobster pot markers covered the sea, adn that made snoozing or not paying attention a non starter. I had to keep watch. The last thing I wanted was to deal with a tangled lobster pot, or one of the, by now, numerous fishing boats. It was quite a while before I left the fishing ground and got back to clear water. I was getting quite close to Blakeney, which is one harbour away from Wells. I was desperately tired by this point, and so set my egg timer to three minutes, made a good check of the water in fron of me, then went below for a short moment of shut eye. I never slept, I was always just about to drop off when the alarm went off. Sodding thing.

I was approaching Wells far too early to get in over the bar guarding the harbour, so I had decided to drop the anchor for a couple of hours to wait for the tide to come in. This meant I could see sleep in front of me. I knew exactly how long it was going to take me to get to the lead in buoy, drop teh anchor, and climbing into bed proper. The closer I got, the more I wanted to sleep.

I finally dropped the hook and set the anchor alarm. Got out of my oilies, but left my clothes on, and jumped into bed. I passed out within seconds. An hour later my egg timer went off and I woke up feeling much better, although still tired. I took a look around and decided the bar was still too shallow to cross, then set myself another 30 minutes of sleep.

I woke from that, took another look at the bar, and then stopped to ponder. The port and starboard buoys are on the wrong side, and there seems to be breaking water too. This made no sense, so I rang that harbour mater at Wells to ask for advice. Instead of advice, he kindly offered to come out and guide me in, so twwety minutes later, I was following up the channel to the town quay.

If you go to Wells, make use of this service if it’s available. The channel is a complete maze of turns, some of which lead you remarkebly close to the beach. Had the HM not gone before me, I would have been left wondering if the buoys had drifted from their positions.

Once at Wells, I tied up to the pontoon, checked myself in at the office, and went for a shower. Afterwards, I felt much better, and so took a walk around the town. I recommend a visit here if you get the chance, it’s fantastic. They still have an active fishing industry, a fleet comprising of small boats, and shops on the shore selling their catches. In town there is a friendly butchers, a grocers, and the best coffee shop I have ever been to. “Bean to the coast”, I heartily recommend a visit there and a warm scone with clotted cream and jam! Yum!

I reluctantly fell out of bed at 2300, started to make a coffee, and then gave up and killed the stove after I spotted it had taken me some 20 minutes to fall the 6″ from my bunk.

I donned sailing clobber, disconnected from shore power, then cast off in to the night. Once underway I radioed Lowestoft harbour control and asked to get in on the midnight bridge lift. They said no problem, they’ll lift it as soon as I arrive.

So there I was, having had about 10 minutes sleep, about to set off to sea for 22 hours. mentally I was ready for it, but I kept thinking some sleep would be nice, and I was pondering on the idea of not going straight out, but waiting on the sea side of the bridge in the trawler dock, where there’s a waiting pontoon for the bridge. Lowestoft had agreed that this was ok if I was going to be there for a couple of hours. The plan was to get an hour’s sleep, then set off at high tide, which was 0149.

I arrived at the bridge, told Lowestoft I was ready, and a minute of two later they dropped the barriers to lift the bridge. The bridge didn’t move, then a crackle of the radio revealed all.

“Kudu, Lowestoft. The bridge is broken. It was broken earlier but an engineer fixed it and since made three lifts.  It seems to have gone again. We have an engineer on site, so can you moor up for a while?”

“Lowestoft, Kudu. Erm, I can, but can you tell me where to go?”

I was in a dock for ships, which is not ever so friendly for singlehanded sailors on boats of 1 foot freeboard. There’s a 10 foot wall with bollards at the top which are meant for the huge mooring warps (ropes). Without somebody up top to take my lines, I would of had to try and throw the rope over them from the cockpit. This was unlikely to have worked.

“try and get on the wall, or next to the tug, over”

Oh, bugger. I thought.

“No problem, I’ll sort something out. Kudu out”

I span the boat around and took a moment to study the dock. I spotted a ladder, a metal one cast into the dock wall, and ferry glided Kudu in against the stream. I was in a gap of about 40 feet, a cosy fit between a large sized tug boat, humming in anticipation of work, and a right angle in the harbour wall. I reaced over the stern to kill the engine, then ran to midships with the bow line (I always keep it ran back to the cockpit when I expect to moor). I threaded it through an upper rung of the ladder, then lead it aft to the port stern cleat. This kept the boat safely against the wall, and was fine for a temporary tie up.

Lowestoft informed me that an engineer is on site and is walking to the bridge as we speak. They gave an ETA of about 15 minutes. “No problem” I said, “perfect time to make a coffee”.

Brew in hand, the radio went again.

“Kudu, Lowestoft. We’re going to give the bridge another go, over”

“Lowesotft, Kudu. Ok, would you like to me to head into the middle ready to go through”

“No, you’re close anyway so we’ll lift it first and then you can cast off”

I was ready to go, patiently sipping my coffee, but after a few minutes Lowestoft came back.

“Kudu, the bridge has failed again, over”

“Ok, erm, I presume you can’t, but can you give me an ETA, or should I head back to the marina”

“I’d advise you to return to the marina, sorry about that”

So, here I am. Back on the visitors pontoon at Lowestoft cruising club. My neighbours are in bed, so I approached the pontoon a bit quicker than usual, then killed the engine, quite a bit earlier than usual. Under complete silence I made a text book landing on the pontoon. With great finesse I hoped off the boat, both warps in hand, and tied her up for the night.

Why does that have to happen when it’s the middle of the night an nobody is around to see? :p

I switched off all the nav lights, and flipped the laptop open to write this. I’m determined to stay up a while so I can adjust for night watch a bit better for tomorrow’s attempt. Besides, I just had a strong coffee so  have little choice in the matter.

I’m back at Oulton, and I’ve picked up the battery that was donated and posted to the harbour master, so I should be able to resume filming again for the next hop. I’m glad because the camera keeps me company, in a strange sort of way. It makes the nervy bits easier when I have somebody to talk to, well, at.

What a fantastic time I had in the broads though, I want to go back for a proper holiday with a group of friends…one day. Even when the weather was bad, it was beautiful, although the electrical storm yesterday did, in all honesty, scare me.

I set off from the free 24hour moorings at Beccles, in to a light drizzle, but heavy sky. As I rounded the first couple of corners, I heard my first clap of thunder. It then started pelting chubby rain down and I was headed directly towards the darkest bit of sky. It took a few monstrous bolts of fork lightening for me to swing the boat 180 degrees and seek refuge under some lighter sky until it passed. I dropped the anchor and waited, because there was nowhere in my safe corner of the broads to moor up, but after about half an hour I was happy to continue in the wake of the angry electric sky.

I moored up for the afternoon further downstream to rest and make lunch. It started raining again. Then the thunder came back, and I started to worry again. I know the risk of being struck is minimal, but I was the tallest thing around, and the tallest metal thing at that. The boat is too small to sit far away from anything metal, so at best a strike would fry all my electrics, and at worse, well, I wouldn’t know about that. As I said, I know it’s very unlikely, but it does happen, and I don’t like it.

I used to love storms. As a child I’d run outside in the warm rain and ponder in awe at the power of the atmosphere, but that was before I had a 23ft conductor sat above me. Now I take my grandads’ stance on the matter and hide wherever possible. I was wild camping one night on Scafell pike with a girlfriend. At about 2am a flash of light filled the tent. I jumped up and reached for the zipper, wondering who’s head torch would be wondering around at this time of night, but as I reached, the thunder erupted. I wasn’t too nervous then, I resigned to the fact that if we got struck it would be instant death, and so nothing to worry about, but it sent poor Sarah into a panic attack.

Anyway, I digress, back to the sailing. I plan on locking out of Oulton at 1530, then taking up station at Lowestoft cruising club. just the other side of the lock. I’ll finish prep’ing the boat, then get a good meal and an early night. I’ll be up again at 2300, through the Lowestoft road bridge at midnight, then sit on the trawler dock waiting pontoon for the tide, who’s time I have no yet confirmed. Hopefully it will be 0300 or so, which would be perfect since I can grab another couple of hours sleep, but I somehow doubt I’ll be that lucky. I don’t want to set off too late since it means I’ll arrive at the notoriously complicated entrance to Wells, in the dark.

We’ll see. As always, these plans are flexible.

N.B. I just check the tide times, at high water is 0149. That’s annoying. I may as well head straight out in that case. Two hours of punching flood will at least get me well out into the tidal stream to make full use of the ebb by the time it comes. Oh dear, this is going to be a LONG day out.

The pilot book says you can enter Oulton broad from Lowestoft, and since the weather is not ever so clement at the moment, I decided to poke my nose in here.

I  must admit, I always have wanted to see the broads. As a child, my dad used to spent a good quarter of the year trying to convince my mum that a broads holiday was a good idea, but, I suspect down to my mum’s distaste of anything that floats, we never did. I had decided to wait at Lowestoft for the weather, but being so close just couldn’t resist head up lake Loathing, and locking in to Oulton broad.

The lock in went fairly smoothly but there is a annoying number of low bridges in Lowestoft. Firstly is the road bridge in the town centre. You must first call up harbour control on the radio (ch14) and ask to go through at one of their predefined times. In my case, I chose the 1430 opening.

I then rang Mutford lock to tell them I wanted to come through the bridge at about 1500. The phone was answered by a Yorkshireman, which given my Lancastrian upbringing, should have sent me in to spasms of revulsion as I tried to force out words they he’d understand, like “eh up, tis lock openin?”, but the truth is, I’ve yet to meet a Yorkshireman that wasn’t friendly, and this guy proved no exception. I was told to contact them on channel 73 on the radio when I got closer.

A few minutes before the opening time, I cast off from the pontoon at the yacht club, and, as required, asked for permission from harbour control to leave the marina and enter the harbour. This all sounds very formal, but it really isn’t. There is radio protocol to follow loosely, but it’s really all very friendly and polite.

I waited near the bridge, doing little oval loops, which was easier than trying to stay still with constant forwards and backwards on the engine. When the bridge finally started opening, the motorboat in front of me charged through. Harbour control was not impressed but failed to raise the offender over the VHF. I suspect he was just choosing to ignore the inevitable stern words. Of course, I, being a veritable font of politeness (honest mum!), radioed to confirm I could go through, but was told to wait for the green light… until he mentioned them, I hadn’t spotted the lights. Oops.

Once through the bridge, the channel widens as you pass the docks, which, like most seaside industry in Britain these days, looks like it’s clinging on to a busy past, but failing to hold its grip. When I was in Lowestoft I heard from countless locals about how the town used to be so fantastic, such wealth with the busy trawlers filling the docks with their catches, and generally memories of better times. As a youngster in Cornwall, I remember the tiny but active fishing villages, and local fishmongers with a queue. Sadly, I think I might well have been part of the last generation to witness this.

At the end lake loathing, just a few miles upstream, is Lowestoft Cruising Club. This is the end of the sea, the broads being guarded by, in order, a railway bridge, a road bridge, a foot bridge, and the lock. Not to worry though, the harbour master at Oulton make the whole transit very smooth. Kudu and another sailing boat, Anouk, did loops and chatted in front of the railway bridge while we waited for the synchronised lifting and swinging of this vast array of metal work.

First, the lift the footbridge, open the lock, and then confirm no trains are coming, once satisfied the bridge swings open, and the boats are invited through. We killed the speed and gently drifted towards the next bridge, the road bridge, which is left down as long as possible to avoid disrupting the traffic. They keep a close ear for any sirens, and if there are none in the distance, they open the bridge.

As I entered the lock, the sirens started in the distance, and they radioed to ask if we could get in ASAP. It turned out be to four ambulances, but our entry was swift, so I’m relieved to say that somebody’s help wasn’t slowed.

The lock keeper took my lines after I informed him I was singlehanded, and we had a friendly chat. I paid the £10 lock fee and motored on through to Oulton Broad, where I parked Kudu on the visitors pontoon at the yacht station there. Once tied up I went to the harbour masters office to enquire about the stickers and paperwork I’d need to be fine free whilst on the broads, I walk away another £10 lighter of the pocket, but it would have been £31 had it not been for the friendly cost cutting advice of the people there.

Not able to resist the flat water and fresh breeze, I took Kudu off the pontoon for a little sail around the broad. I didn’t go far, just had a play, then turned around and beat back up wind. I even managed to moor Kudu up again under sail. I was quite happy with myself for that.

I spent the night at the yacht station, and then left late morning the following day, bound inland for Beccles. As soon as I entered the broads proper, I was instantly glad I made this decision. The idilic houses on the river bank, most of who’s owners also have small boats too, parked quietly at the bottom of their well pruned gardens. Greenery everywhere, reeds, and wildlife. I was going to enjoy this, no matter what the weather did.

I passed a couple of sailing canoes and had a brief chat to the two men sailing them. They were on their maiden voyages after having just been built by their skippers. The really is nothing like messing around on boats!

I spent a few hours motoring as slow as the engine would go, and eventually stopped in the middle of nowhere for the night. I made myself some dinner, then because the fishing season hasn’t yet started, I didn’t sit fishing in the river with a bottle of beer, and I didn’t enjoy trotting a float down the river, something which I haven’t done for a very long time. I didn’t then catch a Roach, and so the photo below is not of last night

If I had have been fishing though, I would have been happy with one catch, and after putting the little fish back in the water, I would have packed up.

I was then joined by two rather large swans. I tried feeding them some sweetcorn, but they weren’t impressed by my culinary offering. Being the property of our Queen, I suspect they are used to dining on more up market food.

I went below and found some bread, then fed them for a while. One was polite and friendly, while the other was hissing and demanding the bread from me. I ended up hand feeding the nice one, right out of Kudu’s cockpit.

I like this place, I could stay for a while longer, but I shan’t. I’ve got to go back to sea at the weekend, but I’m glad I’ve been here.

It has been a bit too long since my last post I feel, and I absolutely have to write about this before it falls too far in the past.

I arrived at the RNSYC marina on Thursday night after 12 hours at sea. I couldn’t raise them on the radio so, after checking with harbour control for permission to enter Lowestoft, found the visitors pontoon, and settled for the evening.

I was woken the following day by a Squib sailor moving my boat so he could fit his alongside. It turns out, I had arrived for the weekend of the 150th regatta, and had parked where the fleet were supposed to be. Of course, as long as people are careful, I don’t object in the slightest to them moving me. To the contrary, it gave me a perfect excuse to have a chat.

The Squib is a 19 foot open keel boat. That is to say, it is just like a small yacht, but with no cabin, and it designed for racing. The owner is this boat was David West, and what a top class fellow he is. He invited me to be his guest for the weekend at the marina, to which I gratefully accepted. He then went on to give me a tour of his boat, a vessel with string aplenty, lines for adjusting absolutely everything imaginable in an effort to coax that tiny extra bit of speed of out the boat, which can make all the difference between winning or losing a race, or so I’m told.

I moved my boat to the other side of the marina and went about my business. I bought some tokens for the laundry, had a shower, and went to the local Asda for supplies. That afternoon, Friday, I was disturbed by footsteps on the pontoon. The freeboard of the Corribee is so low that my windows are at foot height, and these feet turned out to be David’s. He had come along with his race crew, Shaun, to invite me to the 150th Regatta dinner on Saturday evening. Of course, I accepted, with great deal of gratitude too since the tickets were hardly a cheap night out!

Saturday arrived and I fashioned together the smartest outfit I could find in my onboard pile of sea going attire. It was passable, but I would have been turned away from the little ships club in London I feel. At 7PM, I went up into the bar to be greeted by a horde of Squib sailors on the piss.

The evening started with some introductions to David’s friends at the dinner table, and I had a wonderful meal in the company of  a table of remarkably nice people interested in my adventure. One of the ladies I was sat next to caught me off guard a bit, and reinstalled the lesson of not judging books by covers. She was what most people would describe as an “old lady” and my first few responses to her questions were answered so, but she turned out to be quite the sharpest of darts and ended up giving me a veritable grilling about my navigation knowledge!

Later that evening, a few beers down, I sat and watched the introduction to the evenings entertainment; an Abba tribute act. I have to admit I’m not at all a fan of Abba’s music, but the two girls were dressed in little enough to hold my attention for one and a half songs before I made a polite segway to the bar.

I ended up chatting with the members of various sailing clubs around Britain that had brought their Squib fleets down for the weekend, and after a few more drinks got collared by David who had a lady with him. Her name was Tessa, and she and her husband needed an extra crew for their race the following day. I jumped at the opportunity to take part in my first yacht race, and ended the evening quite excited about the prospect of charging through the coastal waters around a race course.

I woke at 0900 regretting my decision to crew on Tessa’s boat. I had a bit of a hangover, which I blame on Abba forcing me to seek refuge in the bar. Things soon got going though and I settled into the day, regaining some of the excitement about my first race. Tessa insisted I eat breakfast and made me a bowl of cereal on their larger cruising boat.

Breakfast downed, we set off out of the harbour under sail. These boats, the Broads One Design, were designed in 1901 (I believe) and don’t have engines. Leaving the harbour though the considerable swell at the entrance had my enjoyment levels right up again. A few showers in sea water spray soon had my hangover well and truly quashed.

The race itself was fantastic, although very, VERY, wet. I certainly put my waterproofs to the test! After a few hours out there, we came back in, but with me a took a twinkle in my eye. I want to get in to racing at some point. I’m hooked.

Since I was now soaked, and it was raining too, I decided to spend another night in the marina, and then, since I am so close, continue inland into the Norfolk Broads the following day to wait for the weather to improve for my next passage North.

In all, my stay at the Royal Suffolk and Norfolk Yacht Club was unforgettable. My sincere thanks to the members of the club for their hospitality, and a special thanks to David, Tessa, and Tony.

Before I close this post, I must also give thanks to Peter for donating a tank of fuel. He gave me a lift to the local petrol station and when I had filled my tank with Suzuki juice, darted in a paid for it before I could bat an eyelid. Thanks Wherry, for that covert sniping of kindness.

I am still trying to think of a way to pay back the awesome hospitality of the east coast. I haven’t yet, but I will. I don’t believe you can take without giving, it cocks up the balance of things, and causing such a hefty rift in karma has got to be a very dangerous thing for us single handed sailors. :p