Ramsgate, 23/10/2000 - Suffolk, 03/08/2002

I wrote the previous draft of this sitting in Pamela Jane's cabin, drinking a mug or three of tea. And where was Pamela Jane? Comfortably moored-up in the inner harbour of Ramsgate's Royal Harbour, that's where.

Poser!

Now, in this summer of 2002, with a handful of new ideas stacked up for 2003, I thought you might like to see an expanded version with a bit more detail and some snaps, so here we go.

After 6 months of bumming about the North Sea and English Channel, and a short way into the French canals, I was back where everyone spoke some form of acceptable English, and where I could have a natter with anyone who wanted to have a natter with me . . . Many people have asked me why I didn't carry through the plan to go to the Med, and I'll tell you why in the simplest terms - I found that just doing what I felt like doing, from day to day, was far more satisfying than I had expected, and that I had so much fun and entertainment that I didn't want to do anything else.

The tiny marina at Courcelles les Lens

In effect, I stopped doing things which I'd planned to do, and did the things I wanted to do, that morning, when I awoke. And equally to the point, when I discovered that I didn't like something, I stopped - for me the stopping point was the charming little marina on the lake at Courcelles les Lens. It really is a lovely spot . . .and just the right place to remember as the deepest I got into France on this occasion.

But the things I enjoyed, well . . . For instance, when I went up the River Crouch, which I have always found boring, I carried on beyond Burnham and found Bridgemarsh Marina - it dries out, more or less, but I was made welcome in a relaxed way by people who enjoyed their lives. You couldn't radio them, of course, so I used the mobile phone - the number was in the pilot book "A visitor's berth?" the voice said "We don't have visitors!" But I was made welcome, stayed for a couple of days, and made my way back to Ipswich for a visit, and in to Burnham for shopping, via the little railway station literally at the top of the lane leading to the marina. When I wanted to pay up, the boss said don't worry about it, hope you enjoyed your stay - so I passed his chief employee a note and said have a pint or two with me.

Heybridge Basin - relaxing with guests aboard.

The same things applied when I went up to Heybridge Basin near Maldon - what a terrific few days I had there. The tone was set when we entered the lock - Pamela Jane and I, that is. An old chap cheerfully grabbed my headline, and in a three-way conversation with him and the lock-keeper, it transpired that there wasn't much space expected to remain in the main basin - a sailing club group outing would fill most of the corners and quaysides.

However, I said I'd be delighted to travel up the canal a way, and the gent who'd taken the line said there was a free landing stage next to his. I poodled up the cut at slow ahead, while he and his lady wife walked up the towpath. The proposed landing stage was just big enough to step onto, and the posts driven into the bank just sufficient to accommodate my lines, so there I stayed for three or four days. A couple of beautiful sunshine strolls into Maldon, a coffee here and a glass of wine there from friendly yachties, and dragged, kicking and screaming in protest, to the pub . . . what a charming place.

A trip into Bradwell Creek off the Blackwater produced a marina seriously overshadowed by a nuclear power station, and its own flock of little tales - like the one I heard from the lady I sat and chatted with on a sea-wall seat, the power station humming quietly behind us and the marina all sails and diesels in front. She and her husband had just brought their catamaran down from Maylandsea; she was having a relaxing time in and around the marina, while he went to work his shifts at the power plant.

The tiny village of Bradwell Quay also has a matching tiny post office and shop; run from her home by a lovely old girl who is delighted to see visitors. She sells second hand paperback for pennies, and can supply an amazing variety of stuff - I hope she and her shop are still there when I next visit!

Over the doubtful summer of 2000, in many nautical nooks and crannies, I ended my stay by saying a brief farewell, and vanishing into the haze; or the rain and mist, in some cases! As much as anything, for this single-handed sailor, it has been a voyage of self-discovery, in a hopefully not too self-conscious way.

The thing is, of course, that so much of the enjoyment I have had was generated by the people I met.

Take Terry and Rory, denizens of Dynamite Dave's hand-built marina, hard by the Pier in darkest Gillingham. (Gillingham Pier Marine) It was a sensational experience . . . I arrived at around lunchtime, on the tide, and was shortly afterwards invited to a small soiree, "bring your own booze" on one of the boats. There was a lumpy but tasty spag bol, cooked by an alleged chef who was trying to impress his possible girlfriend, a small but buxom person of ill-defined nationality, and a lot of drink. We had to change boat twice, to find new booze supplies. I enjoyed myself so much I can't remember going to bed.

Apparently, the chef and young lady sailed out at about 4 a.m. and returned by 6 a.m. or so; her lack of interest was well established by that time, I think.

After a three or four day stay, it began to pale, so I sailed away to further explore the mighty Medway - but returned bearing a few bottles of wine from Calais a few weeks later, to be greeted by another delightful few hours of serious drinking and entertaining conversation. I also had the privilege of meeting the charming sister of Gillingham's Piermaster, who was away on his hols - she was undoubtedly the most attractive person ever to dish-out my meagre 10 litres of diesel.

What a nice berth in St Kats.

During this period, I also took a trip up the mighty Thames (not so mighty after you've been up the Seine, I have to say), to visit St Katherines Dock, and stroll around the place. The trip itself has a mix of boring and fascinating stretches, and some bits are very strange. I found the main river frontage of London itself quite odd; probably more than ever before, the actual river is fenced-in between blocks of flats five to twenty stories high, and travelling upstream at four or five knots with the tide can be quite a claustrophobic experience.

Like a lot of large rivers in my experience, the volume of garbage in the Thames can be rather frightening - there were certainly one or two hard clunks of submerged and semi-submerged junk hitting the hull and the prop. Losing the prop, or getting it fouled, is a particular nightmare for me - I have had a seriously fouled prop once, and only the lucky presence of the local RNLI inshore boat on exercises saved me from considerable further embarrassment and large expense! They cut me loose from the drifted nets, and parked me, efficiently and cheerfully, in a marina where I got an emergency lift-out in the morning.

But St Kat's marina is a great base to explore from. When I was there, it cost about £17 per night for Pamela Jane's 23 feet, and guests in the Tower Hotel, next door, were probably paying ten times that for a night! There was also a yuppie supermarket nearby, and I sat in the cockpit eating ready-roasted whole chicken and fresh salad, washed down with chilly, chilly white wine in the sheltered sunlit surroundings - great!

Dotting about the Dover Strait had been a little revelation on its own, too. For instance, I fell in love with Ramsgate surprisingly early in proceedings - I came, I saw, it conquered me. What a lovely little town, slightly seedy, marginally broken down, yet with a seaside atmosphere I can't really resist. It reminds me of an earlier age, despite the fact that it is totally up to date in terms of drink and drug abuse. Eventually, and somehow inevitably after my canal experience, I returned to this delightful corner of Kent where I found a small job, and gradually constructed a small, temporary, but satisfying life.

After my first stay in Ramsgate, I spent too long in Dover - with gales blowing, rubbish visibility, and general gloom and doom, I eventually kick-started myself and puttered out on a misty morning, deciding initially only to look outside those imposing harbour walls. After discovering that the visibility really was scary, I coasted along to Folkestone, and then kept going. A couple of lethal-looking American forces patrol boats were also wandering about the place - they left Dover considerably later than me, but overhauled me like black angels of maritime doom soon after - I guess that they were doing 30 or 40 knots at the time, a couple of cables away.

After Dungeness, the rain started to fall vertically, and I motored in a half-mile circle of visibility surrounded by the downpour , keeping the cliffs just in sight to starboard. Eventually, soaked to the skin, and in a lumpy dead-heading wind, I motored into Eastbourne's Sovereign Harbour at low water - deeper draught vessels than Pamela Jane were left lurching about outside, waiting for a little more tide.

The reception at Sovereign was friendly and excellent, and I was highly delighted (with myself) when the chap I berthed next to popped his head out of the hatch, did a double take when he realised I was there, and said, "You must have done that a few times before, I didn't even notice you arrive!" It is a point to bear in mind, worth remembering if you are uncertain about handling your boat in new surroundings - the experience and repetition of carrying out difficult jobs will improve your skills dramatically.

You hardly need to exert yourself in a place like Sovereign - I walked a couple of hundred yards to catch up on Chicken Run and, I think, The Perfect Storm, at the mega multi-screen cinema on site, and the Asda superstore was another hundred yards away. In reality, after the small ports and havens of the East Coast, it was all quite strange. If you can get a loaf of bread two days running in some places, you feel seriously lucky.

The effort of going to town, as a car-less visitor, was slightly daunting; but shanks pony didn't let me down, and the sea front walk is charming if long - I had a folding bike aboard, but never, ever, used it!

During this either windy or windless summer, I ended-up motoring on from Eastbourne to Brighton; but it was worth it - I thought that Brighton was wonderful, packed with secondhand book shops, small, cheap but interesting cafes, and generally odd places to visit. Take the Queens Head, for instance - a picture of Freddie Mercury on the pub sign tends to catch the eye, and I didn't have a camera with me, just for the record.

I spent quite a deal of time on the northern French coast, too - here's a confession for you, I really do like and enjoy Calais, Boulogne and Dunkerque . . . A large bowl of moules marinere, provencal, or however they come, or a pan-fried sole, or . . . . do I like food ? Just a bit, I'm afraid, and I enjoy those slightly blowsy seaside cafes where you can get this kind of grub.

Mast down, barge exiting the lock astern.

Of course, the language is not english, and once I took the mast down (£6.70 for the whole event in Calais marina) and went inland, the language became much more important. I'm actually quite surprised at how well I got on; Je essayer Francais, old buddy, I said, and most people gave me the benefit of the doubt and served up something approximating what I'd ordered, so I knew if I'd got it wrong!

1300 tonnes tanker, 13m deep lock.

One of the interesting features is how some of the northern canals seem to be doing in terms of commerce. I appreciate that the trade afloat may be nothing like what it was 20 or 30 years ago, but there is still a good deal of activity on these large industrial waterways.

Surprisingly large vessels - the biggest I saw was, I think, this 1300+ tonne tanker under Dutch registry which passed up and down the canal every day - came past at probably around double my 4-knot speed. They are well-handled and skippers and crew are polite, but surfing on the back of their bow-waves in narrow stretches is quite exciting. Their steel sides can be just eight or ten feet away along side you . . .

But be reassured that these people can handle their craft. On rivers and canals, you'll see maximum size barges taken through lock after lock by one person - and that person is often chatting on the mobile phone or the hand VHF while popping a line over the bollard with the other hand. Husband and wife teams handle large pusher tugs and their barges, too.

He usually takes the string gently into the lock, while she abandons the domestics and strolls forward. A few feet from the closed gates, she raises a hand; the pusher tug gives a few throaty chugs of astern, she drops on the warp with a gloved hand, he goes dead slow ahead to tension it. Job done, and the gates close. Madame uses the mobile phone to ring mother while the lock is filling or emptying. When the lock opens, he uses the throttle, the breeze, or the steering to pick the bow of the string away from the wall, she lifts the warp aboard, and strolls back to the accommodation with a wave to the lock-keeper.

Arques crystal, of course.

Barge cargos these days are the kind of bulk products which take a lot of space in relation to their value - or ones where existing handling facilities make water transport easier or cheaper than trucks. Arques crystal glass factory is a case in point, where the raw material, sand and stuff (!), is rapidly craned out of alongside barges, straight into the ever-hungry furnaces. The factory itself is spread over a number of sites, and there always seemed to be a barge unloading, and another one or two waiting their turn.

Arques boat lift - engineering on a grand scale.

Arques is certainly a one company town, but it does have an attractive marina, run by a charming couple who also have a small cafe in their home's lower story - barbecued rack of ribs, tasty, tasty! The town itself has a really interesting piece of history in the shape of the Fontinette boat lift, now replaced by the 13 metre lock shown in the tanker photo. The lift no longer works, but it is reasonably well-preserved, and when I was there the duty guide was a helpful English lady who I met a couple of days later as she walked her dog on the canal bank.

Your propeller wrapped in plastic?

Travelling along the canals, heading inland from Calais, I become completely fed-up with canal travel itself, not just the constant weeding-up and plastic-bagging of my prop and water inlet strainer, but the fact that I felt lonely and bored, and as time went on, I felt more and more dependent upon the engine - and I am no engineer. Travelling alone, I discovered that I really didn't have the impetus or motivation to continue. I kept improving my small stock of French, but I could never, ever have a really decent conversation with a non-english speaker. Fine, I could get by with the essentials of mooring, shopping and eating; but there is much more to life than that, for me anyway.

For some of you, this may be the part at which we part company, of course. Those canals. I said earlier that I found them lonely, and that, I think is probably the root problem - but the feeling I had was that I loathed the whole thing. Maybe, if I had someone with me to share the experience and the interest or worries, I'd have been okay. But spending half each day's journey standing on the cockpit seat, scanning the water ahead to avoid the next section of plastic fertilizer bags and old rope, was not the intention. Instead of relaxing, I felt stressed and under pressure.

Port de Plaisance at Arques - cosy and friendly.

I enjoyed one or two of the stopping places, but some were also horrible - like Bethune, where the official Halte Nautique, like several others, didn't actually exist. I spent my night there up against a nasty wall, and in the morning spent a jolly half-hour getting away from the underwater extension of a bit of steel piling at the side of a barely marked slipway. Some individual places like Arques were enjoyable, and some of the touristy bits, like the boat lift there, were interesting.

The ambiance of small towns on the waterways can also be appealing; I could easy spend a few more days in virtually any of the places I visited.

But I decided then that I am essentially a seagoing kind of person rather than an inland waterways type. In one day, returning towards the north, I did sixty kilometres while only passing through one or two locks, and passing by one or two Haltes, which were gated-off and closed. Even just being back in the labyrinthine and rather rough dockland of Dunkerque felt so much better than being on the canals. I treated myself to a major feed of moules to celebrate . . . wonderful.

Then when I returned to Pamela Jane, I got together a team of heavyweight French, Dutch and English yachties, eight all told, and got them to hang over her outboard side, letting me get my hand down to the inlet strainer, where I finally cleared the plastic which had reduced the cooling water flow, I believe, for much of my canal voyage. I thought that I'd cleared a lot at the Halte at Watten, but there seemed to be stacks of it still stuck there at Dunkerque. When I looked down at the water now gushing freely from the exhaust, I apologised to Pamela Jane for putting her through the indignities of the canals, and promised not to do it again. She went up for sale in September, changed hands in November, 2000, and there you are.

But of course, like most stories, this one isn't over yet . . .

Next page:[Spring / Summer 2001 - Plans]

© Christopher E. Gosling, August 2002

© CRB Ltd. Updated - Monday, 07 Sep 2020