The general situation at oh-six-hundred hours: A low, Bailly, 990 millibars, expected north-east Fairisle 998 millibars tomorrow. Sea area Plymouth: West-North-West, force 3-4, Fair, Good...
The first of August dawned sunny and fine, but we knew nothing of this. We dragged ourselves out of a very comfortable bed at about 08:30 and slipped our buoy by 09:00. We were soon close-hauled on starboard and laying a course that may just get us to Fowey without tacking.
It was a forty-mile trip to the west, and we hoped to arrive by about 16:30, even allowing for the head-wind. Rusalka Mist is no greyhound to windward, but she does ok and will groove along 45° off the apparent wind in a calm sea. The sea was not rough but the wind had reached 15 knots by noon and the glass was dropping - 2 mbar in the last hour. We put a reef in the mainsail to help put her back on her feet and began to realise that a tack would be necessary to lay the river-mouth.
It was after 18:00 before we were coming in and it looked decidedly stormy by then. The wind had reached 20 knots (the top end of Force 5) and the sky bulged with lead-coloured cloud. We got in with no problem and were soon hanging between fore-and-aft buoys in a wooded side-creek opposite Fowey Town Quay among local gaffers and wooden cutters.
|
| A view of Fowey waterfront |
Fowey (pronounced to rhyme with 'buoy') is a pretty town. The river is not large but there are still active clay quarries up-stream and one of our first surprises was the sight of a huge cargo ship being towed down past our creek from the clay loading quays beyond the town. We were glad not to be still out there trying to get in while this was going on!
We started to notice our neighbours. Getting between two buoys had been a bit tricky; first Nicky looped a bow-rope through the windward one then paid it out while I used short bursts of power and rudder-action to ensure that we fell back onto the correct aft-buoy while I reached to catch its top ring with a stern line. Our first attempt failed as the normal mooring warp at the bow proved to be too short when doubled back like this. An extra turn is needed in each buoy-ring in the end to minimise chafe on the rope.
|
| They sailed that little clinker dinghy very skillfully to windward through the moorings |
A floating length of fluorescent blue polypropylene line had been left between a nearby pair to aid in the manoeuvers and soon another yacht arriving had this in its prop. The Harbour Master's boat was called and after a bit of yanking and thinking they sent the entire family on board to stand in a huddle on the yacht's fore-deck. The craft was so light that this brought the propeller out of the water and the harbour staff could disentangle the rope without getting their cuffs wet. I liked that.
We soon realised that we were not the only observers of this and other events. Two boats up from us an old, square motor-boat, not at all unlike a floating caravan to look at, had net curtains in every window. These were twitched and peeked through every time anything happened in this part of the river. We never saw the occupants, but we noticed the curtains flip and twitch every time we, or anybody else, made any movement throughout our stay.
|
| The Fowey steam-launch coming in at the Town Quay |
A huge, heavy, black schooner moved in right next door to us which seemed to be the container for an entire, floating, hippy community. They stood in groups on deck drinking cans of beer, looking like a cross between latter-day pirates and Afgan rug peddlars. They lowered a delightful clinker-built dinghy over the side and eventually sailed it, to windward, through the moorings and over to the main town. I liked that too.
We enjoyed Fowey a lot. We booked ourselves a table at the Royal Fowey Yacht Club and enjoyed a perfect Sunday lunch overlooking the river. We watched the river authorities chase and catch a speeding speed-boat, unlike Salcombe where the 'authorities' seemed to be the main culprets. There was a steam-launch providing trips around the estuary in grand style. Watching a couple of yachty families dinghy over to a secluded, wooded beach and light up their barbeque using dry driftwood persuaded us to equip Rusalka with a stainless steel barby for future use.
|
| Polruan, with its excellent hostelry, across the water from Fowey |
One evening we took a dinghy trip of our own, up our side-river among the trees. We rowed because the noise of our little outboard seemed to violate the extreme peace of that place far too much. We found out how the steam-launch operator keeps his craft free of sea-gull mess as we passed his mooring. Hanging in the rigging, in a net, was a dead gull with its wings pulled out for all to see. Much more effective than a plastic owl I imagine and with all the other hassles of getting a steam engine fired up every morning I don't suppose I blame him too much.
At night we learned to dinghy across to an excellent little waterside pub in Polruan, across the river from Fowey. One night on our way back, a little merry perhaps, we pulled and pulled the outboard which would not start as we drifted away towards the open sea in the dark. It turned out that we had no plug-cap left. It must have got caught on other people's lines at the pier and been ripped right off. I twisted the bare wire beneath the screw-cap on top of the plug and she started immediately. We sang Beatles songs on the way back.
|
| The sun goes down again behind Fowey and the moorings |
Another dinghy trip out into the river mouth found us our very own pirate's beach, complete with cave at the back. We pulled the dink up the beach and explored the cave. Across the water from this was another beach with a foating rope and buoys across it to keep little boats like us out. We went as close as we dared just to have a look. Up on the hill above the pirate's beach, behind Polruan, was a disused lookout's cottage with the most spectacular views of the open sea. That was a sweaty climb.
It was all part of the pattern of these hot, giggley, endless summer days.
