To avoid traffic we had arranged a Monday to Monday week, having packed overnight, left at 0800 hrs on a late June morning to tow the hundred and fifty miles to Teignmouth. It was a good haul and we picnic lunched on the sea-front car park before looking for a suitable slipway. The only one we could see was across the estuary at Shaldon and when we learned there was no toll for the bridge we crossed and at the end of a narrow road between those delightful old cottages we found a good and apparently public slip. The tide was out but the trailer took the shingle and Jady Lane was off loaded within a foot of the water; she's easier to rig when we can walk all round her. The rain of the morning had cleared and the sun shone as she lay aground waiting for the flood. We brewed tea and considered where we could moor to avoid the strong West wind that whistled through the Teign valley. There was no shelter to be had so we accepted a buoy from a local boatman, motored out to pick it up, rowed back in our coracle, had a pint, and declared the 1963 cruise "underway".

Tuesday started wet and the westerly still blew, we went ashore to waste a little time and hope for an improvement. By noon the river was in full ebb and still undecided about the wisdom of moving outside, we dropped down near to the entrance from where a late start could still be made. Lunch was taken aboard and after brewing coffee and rolling in a deep reef we let go in more wind than we would have liked. Water was breaking heavily over the shallows outside; we had watched the line of local boats making the entrance that morning but could find no calm patch, so with a following wind we tore out through the surf.

As we set a southerly course for Hopes Nose I remember hoping we could make Tor Bay because the thought of ploughing through those breakers against the wind did not appeal to either of us. Clear of Teignmouth the wind was south of west and the going was not as fast as we had anticipated but she was making Hopes Nose, the sky was clear and the surface just tolerable. Ansteys Cove looked sheltered and inviting but a decision was imminent, on clearing the Nose we would have to sail South West if we were to pass inside the Ore Stone. South West proved impossible without tacking and this we preferred to avoid through the narrow between the Ore Stone and the Nose. In fact there is plenty of room but we were strangers so we passed under the lee of the Stone. After listening for a few sheltered minutes to the birds that occupy the rock, we got our first sight of Tor Bay. The holiday season was in full swing but there was not a sail to be seen.

We were now some three miles off Torquay, the wind, coming almost from it, was increasing and the sea in the Bay rougher than a fourteen footer likes when plugging to windward. For a half hour we stayed on our southward course pointing her as far inside Berry head as she would sail; when cruising Jady Lane is decked or covered from her bow to her midships but she was still taking water, I was crewing and took several over my hat, some found their way down my neck, anxiety grew, for the fact was we were aboard a little ship happy to sail to anywhere except England! Our choice was Torquay or Brixham and both seemed upwind.

For certain, sailing as close to the wind as we could we could not keep inside Berry Head, so half way across Tor Bay we tacked and tried for Torquay. Technically our trouble was we had no small jib, the fore sail we do carry was too big for the day and she is inefficient to windward under reefed main and mizzen only. As poor sailors we started the Seagull and at half throttle and reduced sail made the harbour without tacking. At this busy centre we anticipated difficulty with mooring but to our delight found a pair vacant just inside the inner wall; we claimed them, brewed tea, hung up our wet clothes in the late afternoon sun and nobody challenged our right to be there or asked us for a shilling. We dined aboard, went ashore, felt good and slept well.

Wednesday shone a bright morning and I swam a few strokes before breakfast. We lingered awhile in Torquay hoping the wind might moderate but at lunchtime it still blew too hard for an extensive hop so we decided to cross the bay to Brixham keeping close to the windward shore. This proved a good plan and feeling cocky halfway across we let fly the fore sail and the old lady ploughed into Brixham in fine style. So exciting was that sail that we were quite disappointed when we came under the shelter of Brixham cliff. We motored into the fish harbour and decided it was not a good place to stay so went back to the sailing club and picked up a buoy. Before you could say "kettle boiling" the club boatman was alongside to move us off. He was not sure about the buoy we had chosen and was anxious to put us on to one in which he was confident. We found the same welcome in the clubhouse which is nestled into the rock face like a gull's nest. In their visitors book I entered D.C.A.

Thursday was our second bright morning and sheltered from the light north westerly, we breakfasted in the morning sun, then rowed into town in the coracle to shop. Together we collected so much food that crew decided to walk back while I rowed with the provisions, which I unloaded into the parent ship then went over to the club landing to pick him up. As always we started our sail with caution but once round Berry Head we shook out the reef and sailed down to the Mewstone under a clear sky with that glorious stretch of Devon coast to starboard. Our destination was Dartmouth and the wind that funneled out through that narrow opening between those high wooded slopes made the approach a hard sail. Time and again we tacked before we reached the river where we gave in to the Seagull and motored up river in search of shelter.

Just inside, on the west side, is a delightful little pool called Warfleet, it looked inviting but we wanted to see the river, and knowing it took several bends, felt confident we could find a stretch less windy for the night. We chugged on as far as Dittisham; the wind seemed worse, the sky had clouded and rain was threatening. It was six o'clock by the landlords watch so we tied up to the ferry and went ashore for a drink. Local advice on where to anchor a cruising dinghy was very limited, there were no moorings to borrow and we had no idea what the river looked like at low water. At the first place we tried the anchor held just long enough for the awning to be rigged, then it dragged downstream in a most unseaworthy condition.

To get the awning down before we hit something seemed impossible, and because it was already raining we decided to use the outboard engine and hope for the best. To our relief and surprise with the roar of the two-stroke she came under control. We crossed to the east side, got as close to the trees as we could and again, dropped the hook. A lead line suggested we had enough water under us but it was difficult to know just where she might swing before low water; we were close to the bank and the vision of going aground in the night on a steep slope did, I admit, almost spoil my dinner.

When we started soup the plan was to stay up until low water, before cheese we had settled for "one on watch'", after coffee we both went to bed and slept soundly till the dawn! How close we were to the bottom that night we shall never know.

Friday started wet, breakfast under the awning and we pottered down to Dartmouth town and shopped in oilskins. It poured while we lunched aboard but cleared after. We set sail for Start Point in a light westerly. All went well until about half way across then, quite suddenly, we were in a flat calm. A mist closed round us and the sea went as flat as a mirror. The quiet was almost frightening; I would not have been surprised if a mermaid had appeared, so unnatural were the conditions. A night in Start Bay did not appeal, so we motored in the hope that around the Point would blow some wind. That five miles seemed unending across the flat still water, but eventually we rounded the Rock and to our relief there was a breeze. The noise of the outboard had become tedious and we were glad to give it a rest. Unfortunately the wind was too westerly to make any progress except towards Portugal, and we had to restart and cross Tannacombe Bar at half throttle with all sails set to make the best of the breeze. The evening grew cold and we were able to use the primus to brew tea while under way. She quickly slipped round Prawle Point and in the failing light and gathering mist we got our first sight of the glorious entrance to Salcombe. We had hoped that this last leg could be completed under sail but as we came more northerly so the wind died and it had to be a seagull entry to this beautiful river. Before we reached Salcombe village it had started to rain, we went ashore for a drink, then picked up a mooring, rigged the awning and dined.

There is little I can log for Saturday - it rained all the time, we shopped, slept, and drank; the harbour master put us on to a more sheltered mooring and I rowed round the harbour in the coracle. It was still raining when we slipped out on Sunday morning and I was disappointed that we had lingered thirty six hours in this lovely part of the world, yet had never seen it in it's glory. Sunday's wind was light and south easterly. We sailed out to Bolt Head to get a tack back to the Prawle. The going was slow until we rounded Start Point, but across Start Bay we could make better use of the air and the last few miles into Dartmouth was a grand sail with every inch of available canvas set square to catch the following wind. How different from last Thursday when we had had to work for every yard of the same approach and how I wished I had a spinnaker that evening. No longer so interested in the river we sailed into Warfleet Creek on the west side and just inside the entrance; it's a mooring I recommend to anyone lucky enough to cruise this coast in a dinghy. A delightful pool completely sheltered in the side of the hill, wooded on one side with a small beach, with access to the road, which looked ideal for launching and five minutes walk from the town. When we went ashore that evening we tied the coracle to a wall which we ascended by an iron ladder, then by footpath to the road. The road circles the pool in the side of the hill and over the stone wall we looked down on our tiny ship all buttoned up for the night and quietly waiting the return of her sleepy crew.

Monday night we were due home, the cruise was over except for trailing to Berkshire. It was a pity we had no time to sail back to Teignmouth but the day we lost in Salcombe and the wind that kept us in Tor Bay had upset our plan. Crew volunteered to bus back to Shaldon for the trailer. I cooked his breakfast and rowed him ashore, then tidied up the boat and paddled across to Kingswear where there is a public slip. I ran her aground but found the swell would not allow her to rest and because high water was not until noon, I pushed out into deeper water dropped a hook and started packing.

From this position I could just see out into the Channel – it always looks good when you can't go, and for a moment I wished the world would stop - there are so many things I would dearly have liked to do in that corner of the world; then I remembered crew waiting at some bus stop and I returned to my task of packing. The road approach to the slip is narrow and difficult but we rolled out soon after midday. As we climbed the hill towards Paignton we could see across Tor Bay, it was the first day of their fortnight and the bay was full of sail. For us it was the A30 and the end of our 1963 cruise. The weather had not been as kind as we had hoped but we had sailed the D.C.A. burgee into five more harbours and had seen enough of the West Country to want to go again.