It is my ambition to sail the south coast. In 1965 I had a new car and while all the machinery was in good condition I decided to attempt the most distant section, the south of Cornwall. At 1500 hours I enjoyed the June sun on Bodmin Moor, before threading the trailer through the narrow and crowded streets of Fowey. At the north end of the town there is a car ferry, it has no engine or chains but is tugged to and fro by a motor boat tied alongside. It has a good slipway and providing one keeps clear of the ferry traffic the locals are happy to share it with trailer sailors. Conveniently, within a few hundred yards, is a disused railway yard, here one can leave car and trailer for a few bob a week, that’s if the booking office is open when you are there.

We parked, had a drink, bought a bottle for supper and pushed off under the Seagull with our fourteen foot dinghy full of kit not properly stowed. We pottered down the river to Readymoney Cove, a delightful anchorage for a pocket cruiser, that we had found on our last adventure from Plymouth. The sky was clear, the breeze gentle and cool from the north-east, all looked set for Falmouth and for us an unexplored coast. With that thought we ate our first meal of pressure-cooked steak, Cornish cream and strong coffee before shaking out the sleeping bags to dream of tomorrow.

After breakfast on our second day we motored back up the river to the sailing club for water and some shopping. It is an attractive clubhouse and we were pleased to find the steward remembered Jady Lane from the previous year. Back on board the coracle was quickly dismantled into its nesting halves, turned upside down and lashed into the forward part of the cockpit. Under mainsail only we sailed out of the river and headed across Mevagissey Bay towards Dodman Point. The sea was calm and the wind light so we set all the canvas we had and, in turn, took picnic lunch. Before Chapel Point it was clear that the wind was too light to carry us beyond Dodman so the course was changed for Mevagissey.

The harbour shelters a fishing fleet but few other boats. The village is highly commercialised; it was full of people and seagulls, even the harbour master spends most of his day collecting parking fees from the motorists. He sold us a shilling ticket and said “anywhere”, it was a friendly native who told us we were moored over rocks. We moved as advised and spent a comfortable night with a bow line to the wall and our anchor at the stern.

The third day dawned dull but promised more wind. Once round Chapel Point the old lady started to go. The slight change of course for Dodman made her even faster and she charged every mile from there to Falmouth Bay. It was too fast for comfortable lunching but too good to reduce any sail, every sea she hit sent heaps of white foam boiling over the lee bow. To a racing man this might be normal but three hours at five knots in my old boat, laden with cruising comforts, is quite a ride. Half a mile further off-shore a Westcoaster was slowly overhauling us until he decided to reef and with this advantage we rounded Zone Point a few minutes ahead. Through the afternoon we had enjoyed a fair tide but now we had to beat northwards while the Carrick Roads emptied themselves into the sea. The Westcoaster kept close to the east side and slipped into St. Mawes without effort. I think he knew his tides because three times we tacked the full width of the entrance before we could make the slack waters of St. Mawes. We sailed for a while in these beautiful waters and decided to moor off the town. This is no place in a westerly wind but this day it blew from the north and the closer the town the more sheltered the anchorage. The rest of the afternoon was spent lazing on the floor boards out of the cool wind and under the warm sun. It was so warm I was tempted to go over the side but the early summer sea was too cold for me and in less than six strokes I was struggling to get back into the boat. When the sun lost its strength we unfolded the canvas cabin and while I rowed ashore in the coracle crew prepared the supper. I returned hungry and enjoyed my meal on that lovely evening.

The Helford River was our plan for the fourth day but first we wanted to see Falmouth. It was an easy sail across to the docks and round to the town, we found a vacant mooring then rowed ashore to ask if we could use it while we shopped. The sun was hot, the streets were busy. We were back on board for lunch after hauling the coracle and our supplies over yards of black mud to catch up with a falling tide.

The ebb carried us out of the river, in light northerly air we sailed through the rough water off Pendennis Point and across Falmouth Bay.

On this trip we used bottle gas as well as our old favourite Primus stove. I am a fanatic about litter and I had on board one empty and one spare disposable cylinder. When well off-shore I decided to cast overboard the used cylinder, to ensure that it sank I pierced a hole in the bottom with a can opener and to my horror I holed the full cylinder, for a second I was covered by a jet of cold wet gas, how long it took me to throw it away I don’t know but I do know I shall never make that mistake again. Crew, who is a medical man, was concerned for my eyes. I took the precaution of washing them in water and I am happy to say felt no ill effects.

Before we reached Rosemullion Head the wind had died and we rounded August Rock and made up the Helford River under power. It was late evening and to ensure a quick supper the vegetables were prepared while under way. On the south side of the entrance is a creek called Gillan, it looked inviting and we were tempted to use it but we wanted to see Helford. This was the only West Country river I had not been in, they are all beautiful and this possibly more beautiful than the rest, but they are all draughty the high wooded banks seem to form natural wind tunnels. Helford village looked dull in the shadow of the high surroundings. On the north side a tiny beach with the Passage Inn in the evening sun looked inviting so we moved in close to avoid the cool breeze and dropped a hook. A local said, “You’ll be all right there,” and without question we accepted his word, enjoyed our supper, rowed ashore to stretch our legs and returned to sleep. Little did we know that below our boat a jagged heap of Cornish rock pointed upwards waiting silently for our arrival an hour before low water. We had not plumbed the depth, we had made the biggest mistake of the season. When the fifth day was only two hours old the first spike of rock scraped its way across our bottom as she swung in the tide. With a pillow of only a few clothes between my ear and the floor boards this scraping sounded like thunder. I had heard this terrible noise the night I stayed up Kings Quay Creek but there the stones are round and in soft mud, the Helford rocks are sharp and quite solid. Before we could take any action she was fast; to move into deeper water was impossible, the stern was still awash so the full strain was not yet on. Now followed a short debate; to lie still and pray or get out and reduce the weight. The thought of my boat slowly breaking below me was more than I could accept so I left my snug sleeping bag, dressed hurriedly but as gently as possible and stepped out into the cold starlit night.

A quick survey showed she was lying between two ugly mounds of rock in a narrow channel of shingle; there was hope of survival but there were several big loose stones stuck firmly under her planks, any of which could crack her old timbers open. First I pushed an oar under each bilge and propped up the end sticking out with stones, this prevented the boat from moving on to her side. Next I removed the outboard engine and the food box, which is always the heaviest thing in my boat. To keep these clean and from the flood tide I placed them carefully into the coracle then I started the long wait for the water to return. I had in my kit a pair of lady’s plastic over-shoes and these I wore that night over a pair of warm socks, they served me well and I recommend them as dinghy sea boots. I lit my pipe, which I had never done before at that hour, and brewed coffee. If it had not been for my anxiety for my boat, I could have said I was enjoying myself. I cruise for a complete change from everyday life and this was indeed a change. As the morning light slowly lit the eastern sky I climbed over the rocks to my anchor then moved it into the sand a little further out.

It was the coracle that got the first of the flood and to my surprise it floated all its load. As Jady Lane slowly lifted her old keel from that cruel berth I had my fingers crossed. I uncovered the bilge boards and waited to see if any water appeared. It seemed an age before she came unstuck but to our relief no water came, she had withstood the strain, she was undamaged. As the stars faded into the dawn I slid back into my sleeping bag thankful to have been excused so lightly for an error so inexcusable.

After a late breakfast we had a good sail across Falmouth Bay in a fresh breeze. By lunch time we were off the town and after a little shopping returned to St. Mawes because the air was still northerly and Falmouth Harbour uncomfortable. To get the best shelter we moved close inshore but this time dropped a lead to ensure we had enough water under us. I was sure the bottom was harmless but just did not feel like taking the ground that night.

We had forty eight hours to get back to the trailer some twenty five miles to the north east, and there blew a northerly breeze while we packed coffee and snacks for our sixth day. We had a free run out to St. Anthony’s Head where we tightened the canvas and steered for Dodman Point. I would like to have sailed into Portloe which has the smallest harbour I have even seen but the east going was easy and I never like leaving too much for the last day. Mevagissey was an acceptable port but this we had seen so we took the only alternative, Gorran Haven, east of Dodman and in sight of Fowey. The entrance is rocky and until right inside there is no sign of shelter. In the south corner there is a tiny wall behind which the local boats lie moored fore and aft in a neat line on the soft sand. We were offered a place above them but that meant waiting for higher water. Instead we laid our anchor off the stern in deeper water and fastened a bow line to the wall, this kept her in line with the other boats but proved uncomfortable in the rising tide next morning.

I woke on our last day in time to go to church. I brewed a quick cup of tea while my boat lay still on the ground but before I could enjoy it the rising water had reached her side and the light swell was enough to give us a rough half hour. If only I could have floated her round to face this little sea all would have been well but she was still stuck and broadside to the wash. Each little wave was just enough to lift her on to her beam then dump her back on the beach. Tea was spilt and bilge water slopped to and fro across the boat. There was nothing we could do except put up with it until we were afloat, then all was peaceful again. I rowed quickly to the wall, made fast the coracle and ran up the narrow steep street to the church, perched in the rocky cliff overlooking the sea with a boarded-up hole in its three foot wall where a window had been blown in by a recent gale.

There was a rich smell of eggs and bacon as I came alongside, I enjoyed that breakfast and we weighed anchor for the last sail. The breeze was light and the day grew hot. I trailed a mackerel line and to my surprise caught one. As land came nearer the wind strengthened and at the entrance to Fowey blew hard and against us. For the first time that day we had to work hard getting through the narrows and into our favourite cove called Readymoney. We brewed tea and lazed a while until the last of the bathers had left the tiny beach then, with the cove to ourselves we cooked supper. When we returned from a walk to the town that evening we paused to look over the stone wall of the narrow cliff road; below, in the half-light, we could see clearly our dinghy, lying quietly in the centre of the pool with her white canvas cabin and her two slender masts pointing almost at us, patiently she awaited the return of her coracle and crew.

Morning tea was 0600 hours on our last day for there was much to do before we could enjoy a hot bath at home that evening. Crew prepared breakfast while I dismantled some rigging. We motored up the harbour and shared the slipway with the local ferry and its traffic. The car was still in the railway yard. With a good rope from the front bumper to the stern we soon had the boat high and dry. With the trailer between the bow and the water the boat loads downhill and she slipped on to her road wheels like a well worn boot. We thanked the ferry men and the traffic warden for the space they had allowed us and by noon were crossing Bodmin moor at what seemed an alarming rate after spending a week at about three knots.

We had enjoyed this beautiful yet hard rock coast. We had had no rain and favourable winds and we had left it as we had found it, all ready for the next dinghy cruiser who might sail the same course and find the same delights.